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THE MAGAZINE OF

Fantasy and

Science Fiction

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It's heady (are: packed with
pleasure and excitement...
crammedwithits own rewards.
And its own definite risks. In
fact, some people have never
recovered from first readings;
they're hooked for life.

And you'll know why, once
you've sampled and savored
these three science fiction
masterpieces.

THE HUGO WINNERS, an
864-page anthology of 23
prize-winners. They're the tales
picked as best— awarded the
HUGO, speculative fiction's
equivalent of the Oscar- by

the people who really know.
The World Science Fiction Con-
vention. And they're just the
right beginning (or your excit-
ing science fiction adventure.

Next, there's DUNE, by
Frank Herbert, the acclaimed
winner of both The Hugo and
Nebula awards. It creates a
frightening yet feasible world...
as fabulous and freaksome as
the creatures who inhabit it.

Completing this terrific
threesome is THE GODS
THEMSELVES, Isaac Asimov's
first full-length novel in fifteen
years.The master's never been

in better form. It's a thrilling
story of a world threatened with
total destruction by the un-
checked advances of science.
You'll agree that the wait (or
Asimov's newest was worth it.

These three books- mas-
terpieces all— sell (or a total of
$27.35 in their original pub-
lishers' editions. Choose them,
or any 3 books on this page for
Just tot (to help cover ship-'
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SCIENCE FICTION BOOK CLUB 34-S123
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Including Venture Science Fiction

OCTOBER •23rd ANNIVERSARY ISSUE

NOVELETS

The Animal Fair

ALFRED BESTER

And The Voice of the Turtle

STERLING E. LANIER

Thrumthing and Out

ZENNA HENDERSON

131

SHORT STORIES

Skinburn

PHILIP JOSE FARMER

The Hoop

HOWARD FAST

The Lotus Eaters

FRITZ LEIBER

■ Strangers

HARRY HARRISON

105

FEATURES

Books

RON GOULART

• Films

BAIRD SEARLES

100

Cartoon

GAHAN WILSON

104

Science: The Unlikely Twins

ISAAC ASIMOV

120

Cover by David Hardy (see page 130)

Edward L. Ferman,. EDITOR & PUBLISHER Isaac Asimov, SCIENCE EDITOR
Andrew Porter, ASSISTANT EDITOR Dale Beardale, CIRCULATION MANAGER
Joseph W. Ferman, CHAIRMAN OF THE BOARD

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NO: 51-25682

The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Volume 43, No. 4, Whole No. 257, Oct.
1972. Published monthly by Mercury Press, Inc. at 75j6 per copy. Annual subscription
$8.50; $9.00 in Canada and Mexico, $9.50 in other foreign countries. Postmaster: send
form 3579 to Fantasy and Science Fiction, Box 56, Cornwall, Conn. 06753. Publication
office, Box 56, Cornwall, Conn. 06753. Editorial submissions should be sent to 347 East
53rd St., New York, N.Y. 10022. Second class postage paid at Cornwall, Conn. 06753
and at additional mailing offices. Printed in U.S.A. Copyright© 1972 by Mercury Press,
Inc. All rights, including translations into other languages, reserved. Submissions must be
accompanied by stamped, self-addressed envelopes. The publisher assumes no
responsibility for return of unsolicited manuscripts.

About nine years ago, Alfred Bester stopped writing
fantasy and sf to become an editor at Holiday Magazine.
He didn't cut down; he just stopped. Thus we
were both surprised and delighted to get a recent
letter from Mr. Bester that began: “Holiday has
moved to Indianapolis, and after one look at that
mighty metrop. I politely refused to go along as Senior
Editor. So I've gone back to honest fiction
writing. . Indianapolis, we love you.

The Animal Fair

by .ALFRED BESTER

I went to the animal fair.

The birds and the beasts were there.
By the light of the moon.

The big baboon,

Wes combing his golden hair.

The monkey he got drunk.

And climbed up the elephant’s trunk.
The elephant sneezed
And fell on his knees.

But what became of the monk ?

Traditional nursery song

There is a high hill in
Bucks County, Pennsylvania,
that is called Red Hill because it
is formed of red shale. There is
an abandoned' farm on top of
the hill which is called Red Hill
ftirm. It was deserted many
years ago when the children of
ftirmers decided that there was
more excitement and entertain-
ment in the cities.

Red Hill farm has an old
stone house with thick walls,
oaken floors and the enormous
fireplaces in which the cooking
was done two hundred years
ago. There is a slate-roofed
smokehouse behind it in which
hams should be hung. There is a
small red barn cluttered with
forgotten things like bhildren’s
sleighs and pieces of horses’

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

harness, and there is a big red
barn which is the Big Red
Schoolhouse.

Here the ladies and gentle-
men who possess the farm in
fact, if not in fee simple
absolute, hold meetings by day
and night to discuss problems
of portent and to educate their
children. But you must under-
stand that they speak the
language of creatures which few
humans can hear or understand.
Most of us learned it when we
were young but lost it as it was
replaced by human speech. A
rare few can still speak both,
and this is our story.

The meetings in the Big Red
Schoolhouse are governed by
the Chairman, a ring-necked
cock pheasant who is all pomp
and strut. He is secretly referred
to as “The Sex Maniac” because
he maintains a harem of five
hens. The Professor is a white
tat who escaped from the
Rutgers University laboratories
after three years of intensive
education. He believes that he is
qualified for a Ph.D. and is
considering doing his disserta-
tion “On The Relevance of Hot
Water to Science.”

George Washington Wood-
chuck is the peerless surveyor
of Red Hill farm. He knows
every inch of its forty acres and
is the arbiter of all territorial
disputes. The Senior Rabbit,
who is occasionally called “The
Scoutmaster,” is the mentor of

morality and much alarmed by
the freedom and excesses of the
Red Hill young. “I will not,” he
says, “permit Red Hill to
become another Woodstock.”
He also deplores modern music.

There are many other
members of the Big Red
Schoolhouse— deer, who have
darling manners but are really
awfully dumb. The intellectuals
call them “The Debutantes.”
Moses Mole, who is virtually
blind, as all moles are, is
pestering the Professor to teach
him astronomy. “But how can I
teach you astronomy when you
can’t even see the stars?” “I
don’t want to be an observing
astronomer. I want to be a
mathematical astronomer like
Einstein.” It looks as though
the Professor will have to
introduce a course in the New
Math.

There are a Cardinal and a
Brown Thrasher who have mean
tempers and are always picking
fights. The Cardinal is called
“His Eminence,” of course, and
the Brown Thrasher is nick-
named “Jack Johnson.” It’s
true that Jack Johnson has a
rotten disposition, but he sings
beautifully and conducts reg-
ular vocal classes. On the other
hand the voice of His Eminence
can only be called painful.

The Chaldean Chicken is a
runaway from a hatchery down
the road, and she’s a real
mixed-up girl. She’s a White

THE ANIMAL FAIR

Leghorn and had the niisfor-
tune at an early age to discover
that Leghorn is a place in Italy.
Consequently she speaks a
gibberish which she believes is
fluent Italian. “Ah, caro mio,
come est? Benny, I hope.
Grazie. And with meeyo is
benny too.” She’s called the
Chaldean because she’s spaced
out on astrology, which in-
furiates the Professor. “Ah,
you will never be sympathetica
with him. You are Gasitorius
and he is Zapricorn.”

The cleverest members of
the Big Red Schoolhouse are
the crows, who are witty and
talkative and sound like an
opening night party at a
theatrical restaurant. Unfor-
tunately they are not respected
by the Establishment, which
regards them as “mere mum-
mers” who are likely to try to
borrow something (never re-
turned) and who turn serious
discussions into a minstrel
show. It must be admitted that
when two crows get together
they begin to behave like end
men in search of an inter-
locutor, convulsing themselves
with ancient gags.

“Which do you like, the old
writers or the new writers?”

“My brother’s got that.”

“Got what?”

“Neuritis.”

Caw! Caw! Caw!

“How many children do you
have?”

“I have five, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, friend.
Don’t thank me.”

Caw! Caw! Caw!

It was on an evening in May
when the light is long and the
shadows even longer that the
Chairman entered the Big Red
Schoolhouse attended by his
harem. Everyone was there and
deeply involved in a discussion
of a proposal by the Professor.

It was that they should |

establish an Underground Rail- j

road, something like the Aboli-
tionists, to enable other es-
capees to reach freedom. Moe
Mole, who is rather literal- i

minded, was pointing out that
it would be extremely difficult
for him to dig tunnels big |

enough to accommodate rail-
road cars. “I saw one once.
They’re as big as houses.” Jack
Johnson was needling His
Eminence to give flying lessons
to all refugees, regardless of
race, creed or species. Two
black crows were cawing it up.

In short, it was a typical Red
Barn gathering.

“I call this meeting to order
with important news,” the
Chairman said. “I say, Kaff
Kaff, with vital intelligence.
Flora, do sit down. Oh, sorry.
Frances, do sit— Felicia? Oh,
Phyllis. Yes. Quite. Kaff Kaff.

Do sit down, Phyllis. This
morning a Cadillac drove up the
lane leading to Red Hill farm—”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“Two hundred and thirty-
five-point-nine yards,” Geo. W.
Woodchuck said, “bearing, east-
southeast. Latitude—”

“Yes, yes, my dear George.
It was followed by a Volvo
containing—”

“Which do you like, a
Cadillac or a Volvo?”

“My father’s got that."

“Got what?”

“A Cadillac condition.”

Caw! Caw! Caw!

“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!
Please! This is serious. The
Cadillac contained a real estate
agent. The foreign vehicle
contained a man, a woman and
an extremely small child, sex as
yet undetermined. It is my
judgment, Kaff Kaff, I say, my
measured opinion that our farm
is being shown for sale.”

“May is a bad month for
buying,” the Chaldean Chicken
declared. “Importanto decisions
should be reservato for the Sign
of Jemimah.”

“The word is Gemini,” the
Professor shouted. “The least
you can do is get your
superstitions straight.”

“You are a male chauvinist
rat,” Miss Leghorn retorted,
“And I am going to form a
Chickens’ Lib.”

“Yes, yes, my dear. And I
will be the first to contribute to
your worthy cause. Never mind
that look, Frances— Oh, Fifi?
There is no need for a
Pheasants’ Lib movement. You

are already liberated. Kaff Kaff.
Now, ladies and gentlemen, we
are involved in, I say, we are
committed to a struggle for the
preservation of our property.
We must not permit any
strangers (I might almost call
them squatters) to invade us.
We must make the land as
unattractive as possible, and
this will demand sacrifices.”

“Name one that you’ll
make,” the Professor said.

“1 will name several.
Ladies,” here the Chairman
addressed himself to the does.
“Please do not permit your-
selves to be seen. The human
animal is always enchanted by
your beauty and glamor.”

The Debutantes giggled pret-
tily.

“My dear Scoutmaster,” the
Chairman went on to the Senior
Rabbit, “the same holds true
for yourself and your entire
troop. Please disappear until
further notice. No more jam-
borees on the lawns. I, of
course, will make a similar
sacrifice. I shall conceal my
blazing magnificence. Kaff
Kaff.”

Moe Mole said, “I’m always
concealed.”

“To be sure. To be sure. But
Moses, would it be possible for
you to tunnel all the grounds,
raising those unsightly mounds?
You will have to double yoilr
efforts, but it would be most
helpful.”

THE ANIMAL FAIR

“ril get the brothers from
Moles Anonymous to lend a
hand.”

-Splendid. Splendid. Now,
George W.; I ask this as a special
favor. Would you be kind
enough to give up your
invaluable surveying for the
nonce, I say, Kaff Kaff,
temporarily, and eat the daf-
fodUs?”

“I hate the taste.”

“I don’t blame hirri,” the
Senior Rabbit said. “They’re
disgusting.”

“But so appealing visually to
the human eye. You don’t have
to actually devour them,
George; just cut them down and
chew a little. I will do the same
for the lilacs, under cover of
darkness, of course, and my
dear ladies will assist.”

Jack Johnson said, “What
about me and his immanence?”

“His Eminence will remain
out of sight but will sing. You
will remain in sight but will not
sing.”

“I’m as pretty as that
Jesuit.”

“Yeah? You want to prove
it? Step outside.”

“Gentlemen. Gentlemen.
Please! We are concerting an
all-out attack. Now our mem-
bers of Actors Equity will
continue their customary depre-
dations, concentrating on the
apple, pear and peach trees.”

“We ought to eat the corn,
too.”

“I’m hot going to eat you,
friend.” ' ' '

Caw! Caw! CaW!

“Miss Leghorn Will remain
out of sight.' There is nothing
more appealing to the human "
animal than a chickfen med-
itating on a summer day. Oh,
and Jack, dear boy, will you try
to dispossess the Mockingbird?
There is nothing more appealing
than a mockingbird serenading
on a summer night.”

“Why don’t he ever join
up?’' •

“I have solicited him many
times, and he has always
refused. I’m afraid he’ll refuse
to be drafted now.”

“I’ll chase him all the way tb
Canada.”

“I shall continue to supervise
the campaign from my com- '
mand post in Freda’s— ah,
Francie’s— ah, from my com-
mand post under the lilac bush.

I assure you, ladies and
gentlemen, we cannot fail.
Meeting adjourned.”

They failed, of. course. Those ■
losers from the Big City took
two looks at Red Hill farm and
fell in love with it. They saw
the miniature hogbacks that
Moe Mole had dug and loved
them. “Moles have their rights,”
the husband said. They Saw
George W. decimating the
daffodils. “Woodchucks have ’
their rights,” the wife said.
“Next year we’ll plant enough

for us and him.” The Kaff Kaff
of the Chairman doing his best
to destroy the lilacs put them in
ecstasies. Flashing glimpses of
the does and their fawns hiding
in the woods enchanted them.
“Do you think they’ll all let us
live here with them?” the wife
asked.

They bought the farm at a
high price ($1,000 an acre) with
the help of a mortgage, moved
in all their possessions and took
up residence. Almost im-
mediately there were hammer-
ings and sawings inside the
house and flutters of wash
outside, hung on a line strung
between a couple of oak trees.

They were a family of four.
The head of the house was a
Burmese cat, all tan and brown
with golden eyes, who ruled
with an imperious hand. Then
there came the husband and
wife, and a small boy aged two
years who ruled the Burmese.
The news of the cat rather
disturbed the Big Red School-
house, which is not fond of
predators. They are all vegetar-
ians, and the Chaldean Chicken
has formed an association called
OFFO, which stands for Or-
ganic Foods For Oil. In the
opinion of the Professor, Miss
Leghorn is ineducable.

“No, it’s nothing to worry
about,” George W. assured the
assembled. “She’s a right
royalty.”

“Royalty?”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“I had a long talk with her
through the screen door. She’s
some kind of Burmese Princess,
and if the Burmese were ever
hunters, it’s been bred out of
her.”

“She says. Behind a door.”

“No. I helped her get it
open, and we had a real friendly
time until the lady ran out and
grabbed her and put her back in
the house. She was mad.”

“Why?”

“Well, it seems that these
Burmese types are very high-
class, and they don’t let them
out. They’re jdraid she’ll catch
hemophilia or something. The
Princess is kind of lonely. We
ought to do sorhething for her.”

“Hemophilia is not con-
tagious,” the Professor said. “It
is a congenital characteristic
transmitted through the female
chromosome.”

“So, all right. Leukemia or
something.”

“What about the family?”

“The Princess says they’re a
little loose. The name is
Dupree. He’s Constantine and
she’s Constance, so they call
each other Connie and the
Princess never knows where
she’s at.”

“And the kid?”

“He’s a boy and he’s got six
names.”

“Six?”

“They call him after some
kind of poem, which I think is a
pretty rotten scene: James

THE ANIMAL FAIR

James Morrison Morrison
Weatherby George.”

“That’s four names,” the
Professor objected.

“But mathematically speak-
ing,” Moe Mole began, “it really
counts up to—”

“All right. All right. Six.
How old is he?”

“Two.”

“What does he do?”

“Not much. Just crawls
around.”

“At two? Arrested. What
does the father do?”

“He’s an editor.”

“What’s that?”

“You know those pieces of
paper we see sometimes with
print on them like Tomato
Ketchup, Net Wt. 32 Oz.; or
Pall Mall Famous Cigarettes—
Wherever Particular People Con-
gregate?”

“Whatever they mean.
And?”

“The Princess says some-
body has to be in charge of the
print. That’s an editor.”

“What does she do?”

“Who?”

“The other Connie.”

“She pastes food on paper.”

“She what?”

“That’s what the Princess
said.”

“Pastes food on paper?”

“The Princess says it tastes
real good.”

“She is not pasting food on
paper,” the Professor said. “She
is making paintings.” He turned

to Geo. Woodchuck. “In my
opinion your friend, the Bur-
mese Princess, is an ass.”

“She wants to meet you. Her
Connie, the man, went to
Rutgers, too”

“Did he, now? Was he Phi
Beta Kappa? No matter. Per-
haps we can arrange some-
thing.”

“He doesn’t speak our
language.”

“Too bad. Can he learn?
How old is he?”

“Around thirty.”

The Professor shook his
head. “A senior citizen. Too
late.”

At this point one of the
Endmen said, “A funny thing is
happening on its way to the
barn.”

They all stared at him.

“Something’s coming,” he
explained.

They looked through the slit
in the bam door. A curious
creature, pink and naked, was
crawling across the lawn in their
direction.

“Where? Where?” Moe Mole
asked.

“Bearing south-southwest,”
George W. told him.

“What is it?”

“It’s a Monster!” Miss
Leghorn cried.

The Monster crawled
through the slit, stopped, rested
and panted. Then he looked at
the assembly. The assembly
examined him.

FAN TAhV AN!) SCIFNCE FICTION

“It’s James James Aiurrison
Morrison Weatherby tU'orge,”
the Woodchuck said. “1 saw
him hugging the Princes.s.”

“Da,” the Monstc-r said
pleasantly.

“An obvious illiterate,” the
Professor said peevishly. “It
can’t speak. Let’s adjourn.”

“I can too speak,” James
said in the creature tongue.
“Why are you so mean to me?”

“My dear Monster,” the
Professor apologized handsome-
ly, “I had no idea. I beg you to
forgive me.”

“Da,” James said.

“But of course,” the White
Rat explained. “Science always
finds the answer. He can speak
to us, but he can’t speak to his
own kind.”

“Da,” James said.

“You’ve got to speak our
language, buddy boy,” Jack
Johnson said.

“We think he’s cute in any
language,” the Debutantes tit-
tered.

“Ladies,” the Monster said.
“I thank you .for the generous
compliment. I am but a simple
soul, but I am not impervious
to flattery from such glorious
females as you. In this
hurly-burly world of conflict
and confrontation it is a
comfort for a lonely creature
like myself to know that there
are yet a few who are capable
of relating and communi-
cating.”

“ilis primiiiv(! eloquence
goes to tiu‘ iK'tu't," said a fawn,
bailing her eyes at James.

“Where the hell did you get
that fancy spiel?” one of the
End men demanded.

“i rom my father's editor-
ials,” James grinned. “He reads
them out loud to my mother.”

“Honest and modest,” the
Scoutmaster said. “I approve of
that.”

“Hey, Monster, what’s it like
living with human types? Is it
different?”

“I don’t know, sir. I’ve never
lived with anything else.”

“What about that Princess?
The Burmese type.”

“Oh, she’s just a flirt. She’s
viscerotonic; that is, she oper-
ates from instinctive rather than
intellectual motivation.”

“Jeez!” Jack Johnson ex-
claimed.

“One of them editorials?” an
Endmen asked.

“Yes, sir. What I mean,
ladies and gentlemen, is that
this is the first chance I’ve ever
had to carry on a rational
conversation with anyone.”

“Don’t your parents talk to
you?”

“Oh, yes, but when I answer
they don’t listen.”

“That’s because you talk Us
and they talk Them.”

“You know,” the Professor
said, “I believe this simplistic
Monster may have some poten-
tial. I think I’ll take him on as

THE ANIMAL FAIR

one of my students in Arts &
Sciences I.”

“Here comes one of the two
Connies,’’ His Eminence warn-
ed.

“Right. Out, Monster. We’ll
see you tomorrow. Push him
through the door, somebody.”

James’ mother picked him
up and started back to the
house. “Darling, you had a
wonderful exploration. How
nice that we don’t have to
worry about cars. Did you
discover anything?”

“As a matter of fact I did,”
James answered. “There’s a
brilliant sodality of birds and
beasts in the Big Red Barn who
made me welcome and have
very kindly volunteered to
begin my education. They’re all
characters and most amusing.
They call me Monster.”

Alas, he was speaking crea-
ture language which his mother
couldn’t hear or understand. So
he settled for “Da” in human,
but he was extremely annoyed
by his mother’s failure to hear
him, and this is the terrible
conflict of our true story.

And so the education of
James Dupree began in and
around the Big Red School-
house.

“Music achieved its peak in
the Baroque Era,” Jack John-
son said. “Telemann, Bach,
Mozart. The greatest, the guy I
dig the most, was Vivaldi. He

had muscle. You understand?
Right. Now what you have to
keep in mind is that these cats
made statements. And you have
to realize that .you just don’t
listen to musi*'; you have to
make it, which means that you
have to conduct a conversation
with the artists. Right? You
hear their statement and then
you answer them back. You
agree with them or you argue
with them. That’s what it’s all
about.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s all right. Now let’s
hear you sound your A.”

“As we dig deeper and
deeper,” Moe Mole said, “we
find that, mathematically
speaking, the temperature in-
creases one degree Fahrenheit
per foot. But the brothers from
the north tell me that they
strike a permafrost layer which
is left over from the Glacial
Epoch. This is very interesting.
It means that the last glaciation
is not yet finished in the
mathematical sense. Have you
ever seen an iceberg?”

“No, sir.”

“I would like to dig down to
the bottom of an iceberg to
check the temperature.”

“But wouldn’t it be cold,
sir?”

“Cold? Cold? Pah! Cold is
better than pep pills.”

“Thank you, sir.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“Let me see your hand,”
Miss Leghorn said. "'Benny.
Bet^ny. The line of life is strong.
Ah,' but the line of Venus, of
amourismo, is broken in multo
places. I’m afraid you will have
an unhappy love life, caro
mio. ”

“Repeat after me,” the
Senior Rabbit said. “On my
honor.”

“On my honor.”

“I will do my best to do my
duty.”

“For God and my country.”

“And to obey the scout
law.”

“I will help other people at
all times.”

“And keep myself physically
strong.”

“And keep myself physically
strong. ”

“Mentally awake.”

“And morally straight.”

“Good. You are now an
official Tenderfoot. We’ll start
knot tying tomorrow.”

“Excuse me, sir. What does
morally straight mean?”

“Now watch me,” the

Debutante said. “First you take
a step/And then you take
another/ And then you take a
step/And then you take an-
other/ And then, you’re doing
the Gazpacho. Now you try it.”

“But I can’t even walk,
Ma’am.”

“That’s right,” the Debu-
tante said brightly. “So how
can you dance? Shall we sit this
one out? Tell me, have you read
any good books lately?”

“My professor at Rutgers,”
the White Rat said, “taught me
everything I know. He was a Phi
Beta Kappa. He said that we are
always faced with problems in
the humanities and scientific
disciplines and that the most
important step is to first decide
whether it’s a problem of
complexity or perplexity. Now,
do you know the difference?”

“No, sir. I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Hmp! Arrested!”

“Sir, what is the differ-
ence?”

“George Woodchuck wants
to tell you about surveying.”

“I can’t understand why the
Professor said that,” Geo. W.
said. “Surveying can be an
awfully dull line of work. I
wouldn’t want to wish it on my
worst enemy.”

“Then why do you do it,
sir?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, I
suppose, because I’m the dull

THE ANIMAL FAIR

type that enjoys it. But you’re
not a dull boy; you’re very
bright.”

“Thank you, sir. Why don’t
you try me and see if I like it,
too?”

“Well, all right, provided it’s
understood that I’m not trying
to lay this on you.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Fair enough. Now, a proper
surveying job can’t be done
unless you’ve got a fix on
latitude and longitude. The
altitude of the sun gives you
your latitude, and time gives
you your longitude. Got that?”

“But I can’t tell time,”

“Of course you can, my boy.
You have your biological
clock.”

“I don’t know what that is,
sir.”

“We all have it. Quick, now.
What time is it?”

“Just before supper.”

“No! No! How long since
the sun culminated, that is,
reached its highest ^titude in
the sky at noon? Quick, now!
In hours, minutes and seconds.
Off the top of your head.”

“Six hours, seventeen
minutes and five seconds.”

“It should be three seconds.
You’d be out by eight hundred
yards,” The Peerless Surveyor
patted James generously.
“You’re a brilliant boy and you
have your biological clock.
Tomorrow we will beat the
bounds of the farm.”

“Ladies, I say, Kaff Kaff,
women are changeable. Never
forget that. We cem’t live with
them and we can’t live without
them. As the great poet wrote:
Whenas in silks my pheasant
goes, then, then, methinks, how
sweetly flows the liquefaction
of her clothes. You are, I am
afraid, a little too young for the
second stanza, which is, to say
the least, a trifle bawdy.”

“Yes, sir.”

‘JNow we come to the
matter of the moment,” the
Chairman said. “I hope you’re
not colorblind.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Color perception is es-
sential for survival. Very well,
we’ll test you. What is the color
of that flower?”

“It’s the color of an iris.”

“I know that, but what
color? The name? The name?”

“Blue?” James said at a
venture.

“It is marine purple navy.
And that tulip?”

“Red?”

“It is cerise. Really, my
young friend! Survival! Sur-
vival! And the lilacs?”

“Lilac, sir.”

“Ah! Now you’re exhibiting
some perception. Very good.
Tomorrow we will study
ROYGBIV.”

“I don’t know what that is,
sir.”

“They are the initial letters
of the colors of the spectrum,*”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

the Chairman said severely, and
stalked off in a marked manner.

“Hey, kid.”

“Yes, your Eminence?”

“Which one is your father?”

“The tall one, sir.”

“What does he do?”

“Well, he talks a lot, your
Eminence, and I listen a lot.”

“What’s he talk about?”

“Practically everything.
Science and the state of the
nation. Society. Ecology.
Books. Ideas. The theater.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know, sir. He also
does a lot of cooking when he’s
home, mostly in a foreign
language.”

“He does, huh? Say, kid, any
chance of him putting out some
suet for me? I’m queer for
suet.”

All was not perpetual sweet-
ness and light in the Big Red
Schoolhouse; there were Un-
pleasant moments occasionally.

There was the time that
James crawled in cranky. He’d
had a bad night owing to a
surfeit of chocolate pudding w.
whipped cream at supper, and
he was tired and sullen. He
rejected the gracious advances
of the Debutantes. He made
faces while the Professor was
lecturing. He was quite impos-
sible. He spoke just one word.
It wasn’t creature, it was
human, and it wasn’t “Da,” it

was “Damn!” Then he began to
sob. The creatures, who never
cry, gazed at him perplexedly,

“What’s he doing?”

“He’s crying,” the voice of
the Burmese Princess explained.
She entered the barn. “I hope
you’ll forgive the intrusion, but
I managed to get out and came
after him. Hello, George.
You’re looking handsome to-
day. This must be the Professor.
James never told me you were
so distinguished. The Chairman
and His Eminence are magni-
ficent, as usual. I can’t tell you
how many times I’ve admired
you through the windows.”

‘‘Kaff Kaff. I thank your
highness.”

“You ain’t so bad-looking
yourself, baby.”

“Come on, James, we’ll go
back to the house.”

“But is he sick?” the
Professor asked.

“No, just out of sorts. He
has a temper, you know,
inherited from his mother, who
is rather Bohemian. Come
along, James. Back to . the
house.”

The Princess began to vamp
James, tickling him with her
cuddly fur but moving off a few
steps each time he tried to
embrace her for comfort. He
crawled after her, out of the
Schoolhouse and through the
grass toward the house.

“He’ll be all right tomor-
row,” she called. “Charming

THE ANIMAL FAIR

place you have here. ’Bye, all.”

“I told you she was a right
royalty,” George W. said.

And there was the time
when one of the Endmen reeled
into the Schoolhouse singing,
“How you gonna keep ’em
down on the farm after they
seen Paree?” He examined the
assembly with a bleary eye,
rocking slightly. “You’re all
plastered,” he informed them.
“You’re stoned.” Then he was
sick.

“What’s the matter with our
entertaining, I say, thespian
friend?” the Chairman inquired.

“The berries on one of the
bushes fermented,” the other
Endman explained, “and I
couldn’t stop him from eating
them. He’s blind drunk.”

“Actors!” the Senior Rabbit
burst out. “Let this be a lesson
to you, James. Well, just don’t
stand there. Somebody get him
out of here and walk him
around.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“The hose is spraying the
rose bushes. If we put him
under the cold spray. . .?”

“That is keeping yourself
mentally awake. By all means
put this clown under the hose. I
only hope he sits on a thorn.”

“Connie,” Constance said to
Constantine, “I’m worried
about Jamie.”

“Why?”

“Shouldn’t he be going to
preschool?”

“Why?”

“He seems to be arrested.”

“He isn’t three yet. What do
you want, Connie, some sort of
prodigy entering Harvard aged
ten and blighted for life? I want
James to grow up a healthy
normal boy without having his
mind forced prematurely.”

“If you will permit me.
Professor,” James said, “I
would like to disagree with my
learned colleague, Moe Mole, on
the Big Bang Theory of
cosmology.”

“Cosmogony,” the White
Rat corrected shortly.

“Thank you, sir. The idea of
a giant proto-atom exploding to
produce the expanding universe
as we know it today is most
attractive, but in my opinion it
is pure romance. I believe in the
Steady State Theory— that our
universe is constantly renewing
itself with the birth of new stars
and galaxies from the primor-
dial hydrogen.”

“But what is your proof?”
Moses Mole asked.

“The eternal equation,”
James answered. “Energy is
equal to mass multiplied by the
speed of light raised to the
second power.”

A voice called in human,
“James? Jamie? Where are
you?”

“Excuse me, Professor,”
James said politely. “I’m
wanted.”

He crawled to the crack in
the barn door and squirmed
through with difficulty. “Da!”
he cried in human.

“We’ll have to open that
door more,” the Professor said
irritably. “He’s grown. Why in
the world hasn’t he learned how
to walk? He’s old enough. When
1 was his age, I had grand-
children.”

The rabbits and fawns
tittered.

“Class dismissed,” the Pro-
fessor said. He glared at Moses
Mole. “You and your Big Bang
Theory! Why can’t you help me
get microscopes for my biology
seminar?”

“I haven’t come across any
underground,” Moe said reason-
ably. “As a matter of fact, I
wouldn’t know one if I saw it.
Could you describe a micro-
scope mathematically?”

“E=Mc^ ,” the Professor
snapped and marched off. He
was in a terrible state of mind,
and his classes were fortunate
that they weren’t taking ex-
aminations just now. He would
have flunked every one of his
students.

The Professor was deeply
concerned about James James
Morrison Morrison, who was
past two years old and should
be walking and talking human
by now. He felt a sense of

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

impending guilt and went to the
duck pond for a searching
self-examination .

“Now I am alone,” the
White Rat said. The mallard
ducks paddled up to have a
look at him, but he ignored
them. Everybody knows that
ducks are incapable of appre-
ciating a solemn soliloquy.

“The quality of wisdom is
not strained. It droppeth as the
gentle rain from heaven; so who
are we mere fardels to do battle
with the angels? All I ask,
James, is that ye remember me.
This day is called Father’s Day.
He who shall outlive this day
will stand a tiptoe when this
day is named and yearly feast
his neighbors. Old men forget,
but is it not better to bear the
slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune?”

Then he began something
between a growl and a song:

On the banks of the Old Raritan,
my boys,

Where Old Rutgers evermore shall
stand,

For has she not stood since the
time of the flood

On the banks of the Old Raritan.

Feeling much better, the
Professor returned to the Big
Red Schoolhouse to prepare his
first lecture on the New Math.
“Zero,” he said to himself.
“One. Ten. Eleven. One hun-
dred. One hundred and one. . .”
He was counting in binary
arithmetic.

THE ANIMAL ^AIR

fMe^nwhile, James, ^ Ja^es
Morrison Morrison had finished
his lunch (chicken salad, 1 slice
bread w. butter, applesauce and
milk) and was upstairs in his cot
theoretically having a nap,
actually in drowsy, conversation
with the Princess, who had
made herself comfortable on hip
chest.

“I do love you,” James said,
“but you take me for granted,
All you women are alike,”

“That’s because you love
everything, James.”

“Shouldn’t everybody?”

“Certainly not. Everybody
should love me, of course, but
not everything. It reduces my
rank.”

“Princess, are you really a
Burmese Princess?”

*T thought you said you
loved me.”

“But I happen to know you
were born in Brooklyn,”

“Politics, James. Politics.
Daddy, who was also an
admiral, was forced to flee
Burma at a moment’s notice.
He barely had time to throw a
few rubies into a flight bag and
then came to Brooklyn.”

“Why Brooklyn?”

“The plane was hijacked.”

“What’s a ruby?”

“Ask your Professor,” the
Princess snapped.

“Ah-ha! Jealous. Jealous. I
knew I’d get you,”

“Now who’s taking who for
granted?”

“Me. Shift up to my heck.
Princess..! can’i^ breathe.”

“You are a male chauvinist
pig,” the Princess said as she
obliged. “I’m merely your sex
symbol.”

“Say, why don’t you, join
Miss Leghorn’s Chickens’ Lib
movement?”

“Me, sir? What have I to do
with chickens?”

“I notice you did all right
with my chicken salad. Don’t
pretend you don’t don’t know
what: I’m talking about. I saw
you up on the table when
mamma was loading the dish-
washer. 1; thought the mayoni-
naise was awful.” i

“Commercial.” i

“Can’t you teach mamma
how to make homemade
mayo?” ; '

“Me, sir? What have I to do
with kitchens? I leave that to
the help,”

“Ah-ha! Gotcha again.”

“I hate you,” the Princess
said. “I loathe and execrate
you.”

“You love me,” James James
said comfortably. “You love me
and you’re stuck with me. I’ve
got you in my power,”

“Are there any cats in the
Red Barn?”

“No,” James laughed.
“You’re the one and only
Princess on Red Hill.”

There was an outlandish
noise outside, a snarling and
screaming in creature voices. ‘

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“What’s that?” James ex-
claimed.

The Princess got to the
window in a scamper and
returned. “Just a couple of
farm dogs playing with George
Woodchuck,” she reported lazi-
ly. “Now, as we were saying
about me—”

“Playing? That doesn’t
sound like playing to me. I’d
better see for myself.”

“James, you know you can’t
walk.”

“I’m damn well going to
walk now.”

James James hove himself
over the edge of the cot and fell
to the floor. He gripped the
edge of the bed and pulled
himself upright. Then he
tottered to the window.

“They aren’t playing with
George. He’s in bad trouble.”

James made his way out of
the room, clutching at walls and
door frames, managed the stairs
by sitting down on every tread,
butted the screen door open
with his head, and was out on
the soft meadow, trotting,
tottering, falling, picking him-
self up, and driving himself
toward the Peerless Surveyor
who was being torn by two
savage mongrels.

They snarled and snapped as
James threw himself over
George W. and were quite
prepared to come in after both
of them. James kicked and
flailed at them. He also

challenged and cursed them in
the creature tongue. Using
language so frightful that it
cannot be reported. The display
of courage and determination
discouraged the mongrels, who
at last turned and made off
jauntily as thought it had only
been a game all along. James
pulled himself to his knees,
picked up George, lurched to
his feet and began tottering
toward the Big Red Barn.

“Thank you,” George said.

“Aw, shut up,” James
'replied.

When they reached the
Schoolhouse, everyone was
there. Nothing escapes atten-
tion on Red Hill. James James
sat down on his fat bottom
with the Surveyor still cradled
in his arms. The Debutantes
made sympathetic sounds.

“Hunters! Hoodlums!” the
Senior Rabbit growled. “No
one is safe from them. It’s all
the fault of the Bleeding Hearts.
Understand them. Be kind to
them. Help them. Help them do
what? Kjll.”

“There is a triangle of Red
Hill farm,” Geo. W. said faintly,
“measuring exactly one point
six acres. It extends into the
property next door where
Paula, the pig, lives. Tell Paula
she must respect our— She
must— our boundar— ”

“I’ll tell her,” James said,
and began to cry.

They took the body of the

THE ANIMAL FAIR

woodchuck from his arms and
carried it to the woods where
they left George exposed to the
weather and nature. Creatures
do not bury their dead. James
was still sitting in the Big Red
Schoolhouse, silently weeping.

“The kid’s a right guy,” one
of the Endmen said.

“Yeah, he’s got moxie. You
see the way he fight them dogs
to a Mexican stand-off? Two to
one against, it was.”

“Yeah. Hey, kid. Kid. It’s all
over now. Kid, you ever hear
the one about the guy who goes
into a butcher store, you should
excuse the expression?” The
Endman poked his partner.

“I’d like a pound of kidleys,
please.”

“You mean kidneys, don’t
you?”

“Well, I said kidleys, diddle
I?”

“Oh, funny! Fun-nee! Huh,
kid?”

“He will have to fall into the
pond, Kaff Kaff, I say be
immersed,” the Chairman said.
“He is covered with George’s
blood, and the two Commies
will ask questions.”

“That’s Connies.”

“No matter. Will our lovely
young Debutantes be kind
enough to convey our valiant
friend to the pond and—”

“I can walk now,” James
said.

“To be sure. To be sure. And
push him in. Kaff Kaff. And my

apologies to the Mallards, who
may resent the trespass. May I
say, my dear boy, I say, may I
state on behalf of us all that we
welcome you as a fully
accepted member of our com-
mune. It is a privilege to have a
specimen of your species, Kaff
Kaff, Smong us. I’m sure my
valued friend, the Professor,
will agree.”

“He’s my best pupil,” the
White Rat admitted grudgingly,
“but I’m going to have to work
him over if he ever hopes to get
into Rutgers.”

“Oh, Jamie! You fell into
the pond again.”

“Da,” the hero said.

That night was another bad
night for James. He was terribly
upset over the murder of
George. He was in a quandary
about the Scoutmaster’s denun-
ciation of dogs because he was
as fond of dogs as he was of all
creatures.

“There are good dogs and
bad dogs,” he kept insisting to
himself, “and we mustn’t judge
the good by the bad. I think the
Senior Rabbit was wrong, but
how can a Scoutmaster be
wrong?

“It’s a question of the
Categorical Imperative. Good
acts lead to good results. Bad
acts lead to bad results. yBut can
good lead to bad or bad to
good? My father could answer
that question, but I’m damned

if I’ll ask him in his language.
He won’t speak ours.”

Here, the deep rumbling of
the bats began to irritate him.
Creature voices are pitched so
much higher than human voices
that what sounds like a bat
squeak to the human ear sounds
like a bass boom to the creature
ear. This is another reason why
most humans can’t speak
creature. James went to the
window.

“All right! All right!” he
called. “Break it up and move it
out.”

One of the bats fluttered to
the window screen and hooked
on. “What’s bugging you, old
buddy boy?” he rumbled.

“Keep it down to a roar, will
you? You want to wake up the
whole house?”

“They can’t hear us.”

“I can hear you.”

“How come? Not many
human types can.”

“I don’t know, but I can,
and you’re making so much
noise I can’t sleep.”

“Sorry, old buddy, but we
got to.”

“Why?”

“Well, in the first place we’re
night people, you know?”

“Yes. And?”

“In the second place we
don’t see so good.”

“Moe Mole doesn’t see
•ither, but he doesn’t make a
incket.”

“Y^h, but Moe is working

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

underground, old buddy. He
hasn’t got like trees and barns
and buildings to worry about.
You know? Now the last thing
we want to do is crash info
something. There ’d be a CAB
investigation, and somebody
would lose his license for sure.”

“But what’s the noise got to
do with it?”

“That’s our sonar.”

“What’s sonar?”

“Radar you know about?”
, “Yes.”

“Sonar is radar by sound.
You let out a yell and the
echoes come back and you
know where everything is.”

“Just from the echo?”

“Right on. You want to try
it? Go ahead. Wait a minute; no
cheating. Close your eyes. Now
make with the sonar.”

“What should I yell?”

“Anything you feel like.”

‘ ‘WEEHAWKEN! ” James
shouted. The bat winced.

“I heard three echoes,”
James said.

“What were they?”

“Weehawken.”

“That w'as the big barn.”

“Whyhawken.”

“The smoke house.”

“Weehawkee.”

“The oak tree. You’re
getting the hang, old buddy.
Now why don’t you practice a
little? It won’t bother us. None
of us use. place names except
one cracker from the south who
keeps hollering Carlsbad.”

THE ANIMAL FAIR

And then James fell in love.
It was a mad, consuming
passion for the least likely
candidate. Obeying George
Woodchuck’s dying ad-
monition, he went down to the
traingle to request Paula, the
pig, to respect the boundaries,
and it was love at first sight.
Paula was white with black
patches or black with white
patches (Poland China was her
type), and she was grossly
overweight. Nevertheless, James
adored her. He brought her
armfuls of apples from the
orchard, which she ate method-
ically and without thanks.
Nevertheless, James loved her.
He was the despair of the Big
Red Schoolhouse.

“Puppy love,” the Professor
snorted.

“He’s a setup for a my-wife-
is-so-fat-that joke,” one of the
Endmen said.

“Marriage is out of the
question,” the Senior Rabbit
said. “She’s twice his age.”

“And twice his weight.”

Caw! Caw! Caw!

“If he dares to bring that
woman here,” the Debutantes
said, “we’ll never sjjeak to him
again.”

James dreamed into the
barn. “Ready for the biology
seminar,” he said.

“Mathematics today,” the
Professor rapped.

“Yes, Paula.”

“I am the Professor.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“We will begin with a review
of binary arithmetic. I trust you
all remember that the decimal
system uses the base of ten. We
count from one to ten, ten to
twenty, twenty to thirty, and
so on. The binary system is
based on zero and one. Zero is
zero. One is one, but two is ten.
Three is eleven. Four is one
hundred. What is five, James?”

“One hundred and Paula.”

“Class dismissed.”

And then James began to
skip classes.

“We were supposed to start a
dig yesterday,” Moe Mole
reported, “and he never showed
up.”

“He cut my oratorio ses-
sion,” Jack Johnson said.

“That boy is turning into a
dropout.”

“Have you noticed how he’s
brushing his hair?” the Debu-
tantes inquired.

“Oh, come on!” His Em-
inence said. “If the kid’s got
hot pants, why can’t we—”

“The boy is morally
straight,” the Scoutmaster
interrupted sternly.

“It can’t be solved on
simplistic terms,” the Professor
said. “Emotions are involved,
and the cerebrum is never on
speaking terms with the cerebel-
lum.” '

Alas, the situation resolved
itself on an afternoon wIkmi
James, carefully combed and

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

brushed, brought another arm-
ful of apples to his love. Paula
devoured them as stolidly as
ever while James sat and
watched devotedly. Apparently
Paula was extrahungry this
afternoon because when James
started to embrace her she
started to eat him. James pulled
his arm out of her mouth and
recoiled in horror and disil-
lusionment.

“Paula!” he exclaimed.
“You only love me for myself.”

“Khonyetchna," Paula
grunted in Cyrillic.

James returned to the Big
Red Schoolhouse in a gloomy
mood. Of course everybody had
seen the sad incident, and all of
them did their best to be
tactful.

“Physiology tomorrow,” the
Professor said. “We will discuss
the hydrogen-ion balance in the
blood.”

“Yes, sir,”

“We got to get on to the
modem composers, kid.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know, shale is an
oil-bearing rock,” Moses Mole
said. “But why isn’t there any
oil in red shale? There must be
a mathematical reason.”

“We’ll try to find it, sir.”

“Stick out your chest and be
a man,” the Scoutmaster said.

“I’m trying, sir.”

“It is better to have loved
and lost than never to have
loved at all,” the Chairman said.

Then a fawn nestled along-
side James and whispered, “It’s
all right. We’re sorry you picked
the wrong girl, but it has to
happen to every man at least
once. That’s how you find the
right girl.”

James burst into tears and
cried and cried for his lost love
while the fawn petted him, but
in the end he felt curiously
relieved.

“James,” the Professor said,
“we must have a serious talk.”

“Yes, sir. Here?”

“No, Come to the willow
grove.” They went to the
willow grove. “Now we are
alone,” the Professor said.
“James, you must start speak-
ing to your mother and father. I
know you can. . Why don’t
you?”

“I’m damned if I will, sir.
They won’t speak Us. Why
should I speak Them?”

“James, they don’t know
how to speak Us. Aren’t you
being unfair?”

“They could try.”

“And I’m sure they would if
they had a clue, but they
haven’t. Now listen to me.
You’re our only link between
Us and Them. We need you,
James, as a diplomatist. Your
mother and father are very nice
people; no hunting or killing on
Red Hill, and they’re planting
many things. We dl live
together very pleasantly. I

THE ANIMAL FAIR

admit your mother loses her
temper with the Scoutmaster
and his troop because they
won’t get out of her way when
she comes out to hang the
laundry on the line, but that’s
because she has a Bohemian
disposition. We know what
artists are like, unpredictable.”

“I won’t talk to her,” James
said.

“Your father is an intel-
lectual of top caliber, and he
went to Rutgers. You’ve
brought many of his ideas and
speculations to the School-
house, which are stimulating
and appreciated. In all fairness
you should let him know how
grateful we are to him.”

“He wouldn’t believe me.”

“But at least you could
speak to him.”

“I won’t speak to him. He’s
old, old, old and hidebound.
He’s a cube. He’s trapped in a
structured society,”

“Where did you get that?”

“From my father.”

“Well, then. You see?”

“No, I don’t,” James said
stubbornly. “I won’t talk their
language to them. They have to
try Us first.”

' “In other words, you have
opted for Us?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To the exclusion of
Them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then there’s nothing more
to say.”

“Connie,” Constance said to
Constantine, “we must have a
serious talk.”

“Now?”

■ “Yes.”

“What about?”

“Jamie.”

“What about Jamie?”

“He’s a problem child.”

“What’s his problem?”

“He’s arrested.”

“Are you starting that again?
Now come on, Connie. He’s
learned to walk. What more do
you want?”

“But he hasn’t learned to
talk.”

“Talk! Talk! Talk!” Con-
stantine soimded as though he
was cursing. “Words! Words!
Words! I’ve lived my whole life
with them, and I hate them. Do
you know what most words
are? They’re bullets people use
to shoot each other down with.
Words are weapons for killers.
Language should be the beauti-
ful poetry of communication,
but we’ve debased it, poisoned
it, corrupted it into hostility,
into competition, into a contest
between winners and losers.
And the winner is never the
man with something to say; the
winner is always the fastest gun
in the West. These are the few
simple words I have to say
about words.”

“Yes, dear,” Constance said,
“but our son shodld bo
shooting words by now, and lie
isn’t.”

“I hope he never does.”

“He must, and we’ll have to
take him to a clinic. He's
autistic.” i

“Autism,” the Professor
said, ‘Us an abnormal absorp-
tion in fantasy to the exclusion
Of external reality. I have
known many laboratory victims
who have been driven to this
deplorable state by fiendish
experiments.”

“Could you put that in
mathematical terms?” Moe
aisked. “I can’t follow your
words.”

“Ah, yes. Kaff Kaff. I’m
having some slight difficulty
myself. ' I’m sure our valued
friend will be good enough to
simplify.”

“All right,” the White Rat
said. “He won’t talk.”

-“Won’t talk? Good heavens!
We can’t shut him up. Only
yesterday he engaged me in a
two-hour dispute over Robert’s
Rules of Order, and—”

“He won’t talk human.”

“Oh. Ah.”

“The qiiesto is can he?” the
Chaldean Chicken said. “Many
who are born under the Sign of
Torso find it diffieulto to—”

“Taurus! Taurus! And will
you be quiet. He can talk'; he
just won’t.”

“What’s a fantasy?” Moe
asked.

“A hallucination.”

“What’s that?”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“Something unreal.”

“You mean he’s not real?
But I only saw him yesterday,
and he— ”

“I have no intention of
discussing the metaphysics of
reality. Those of you who are
interested may take my course
in Thesis, Synthesis and An-
tithesis. The situation with
James is simple. He talks to us
in our language; he refuses to
talk to his parents in their
lan^age; they are alarmed.”

“Why are they alarmed?”

“They think he’s autistic.”

“They think he’s unreal?”

“No, Moe,” the Professor
said patiently. “They know he’s
real. They think he has d
psychological hang-up which
prevents him from talking
human.”

“Do they know he talks
Us?”

“No.”

“Then why don’t we tell
them? Then everything will be
ail right.”

“Why don’t you tell them?”

“I don’t know how to talk
Them.”

“Does anybody here knovy
how? Ainybody?”'

No answer.

“So much for that brilliant
suggestion,” the Professor said.
“Now we come to the crux of
the situation. They’re going to
send him to a remedial school.”

“What’s the matter with our
school?”

THE ANIMAL FAIR

“They don’t know about our
school, you imbecile! They
want him to go to a school
where he can learn to speak
English.”

“What’s that?”

“Them talk.”

“Oh.”

“Well, Kaff Kaff, as our
most esteemed and valued
scholar, surely you can have no
objections to that program, my
dear Professor.”

“There’s a dilemma,” the
White Rat said sourly.

“Name it, sir. I say, describe
it and we shall, Kaff Kaff, we
shall cope.”

“He’s so used to speaking Us
that I’m afraid he won’t learn
to speak Them.”

“But why should he want to,
my learned friend?”

“Because he’s got Rutgers
before him. ”

“Ah, yes. To be sure. Your
beloved alma mater. But I still
can’t quite fathom, I say,
perceive the basic difficulty.”

“We’ve got to turn him off.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’ve got to stop speaking
to him. We’ve got to break his
Us habit so he can learn Them.
Nobody can speak both.”

“You can’t mean Coventry,
Professor?”

“I do. Don’t you under-
stand? No matter where he
goes, there will be others of us
around. We must break the
habit. Now. For his sake.” The

Professor began to pace angrily.
“He will forget how to speak
Us. We’ll lose him. That’s the
price. My best pupil. My
favorite. Now he may never
make Phi Beta Kappa.”

The Debutantes looked de-
spairing. “We love that boy,”
they said. “He’s a real swinger.”

“He is not,” the Senior
Rabbit stated. “H^ is trust-
worthy, loyal, helpful, friendly,
courteous, kind, obedient,
cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean
and reverent.”

“He told me aU about E
equals MC two,” Moe said. “It
gave me an insight. It will
change the world. ”

“Aquarium,” Miss Leghorn
said profoundly.

“He is a pest, a bore, a
nuisance, a— a human,” the
Professor shouted. “He doesn’t
belong in our Schoolhouse. We
want nothing to do with him;
he’ll sell us out sooner or later.
Coventry! Coventry!” Then he
broke down completely. “I love
him, too, but we must be brave.
We’re going to lose him, but we
must be brave for his sake. And
somebody better warn the
Princess.”

James James Morrison Mor-
rison shoved the barn door a
little wider and swaggered into
the Schoolhouse. There was no
mistaking his pride in his walk.
In an odd way it ..was a
reflection of the Chairman's
strut.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“Ladies and gentlemen, good
evening,” he said, as courteous
as ever.

The Debutantes sniffled and
departed.

“What’s the matter with
them?” James asked curiously.
He turned to the mole. “Uncle
Moe, I just heard something up
at the house that’ll interest you.
It seems that Newton’s model
of the universe may break
down. Time is not reversible
from the mathematical stand-
point, and—”

Here Moe broke down and
went underground.

“What’s the matter with
him?” James asked.

There was no answer. Every-
body else had disappeared, too.
The long sad silence had begun.

The pheasant strutted, ac-
companied by his harem, and
he ignored James. Martha W.
Woodchuck, who had taken on
George’s surveying duties (she
was his daughter-in-law), ig-
nored James. Neither the
Professor nor the Scoutmaster
were to be seen. The does and
the fawns hid in the woods.
Moe Mole decided on an early
hibernation. Jack Johnson went
south for the winter, and His
Eminence suddenly moved his
residence to Paula’s territory.
The crows could not resist the
challenge of an art nouveau
scarecrow on a farm a mile off
and left. James James was
abandoned.

“Would you like to read my
palm?” he asked Miss Leghorn,

“Cluck,” she replied.

“Princess,” he said, “why
doesn’t anybody want to talk
to me?”

“Aeiou,” she replied.

James was abandoned.

“Well, at least he’s learned
how to walk,” Dr. Rapp said,
“and that’s a favorable prog-
nosis. What beats me is how he
can be autistic in such an
articulate home. One would
think that— Stop. An idea. Is it
possible that the home is too
articulate, that his autism is a
refusal to compete with his
betters?”

“But there’s no competition
in our home,” one of the two
Connies said.

“You don’t grasp the poten-
tial of the^idea. In our society,
if you don’t win, you have
failed. This is our contemporary
delusion. James may well be
afraid of failure.”

“But he’s only three years
old.”

“My dear Mrs. Dupree,
competition begins in the
womb.”

“Not in mine,” Connie said
indignantly. “I’ve got the
fastest womb in the West.”

“Yes. And now if you will
excuse me, the first lesson will
begin. That door out. Thank
you.” Dr. Rapp buzzed the
intercom. “Sherbet,” he said. A

THE ANIMAL FAIR

chalice of orange sherbet was
brought to him.

“James,” he said, “would
you like some orange ice?
Here.” He proffered a spoonful.
James engulfed it. “Good.
Would you like some more?
Then tell me what this is.” Dr.
Rapp held up a striped ball.
“It’s a ball, James. Repeat after
me. Ball.”

“Da,” James said.

“No more orange ice, James,
until you’ve spoken. Ball. Ball.
Ball. And then the goody.”

“Da.”

“Perhaps he prefers the
lemon flavor,” Dr. Rapp said
the next week. He buzzed the
intercom. “Lemon sherbet,
please.” He was served. “James,
would you like some lemon
ice?” He proffered a spoonful
which was absorbed. “Good.
Would you like some more?
Then tell me what this is. It’s a
ball, James. Repeat after me.
Ball. Ball. Ball.”

“Da,” James said.

“We’ll try ice cream,” Dr.
Rapp said a week later. “We
can’t permit him to fall into a
pattern of familiarized societal
behavior. He must be chal-
lenged.” He buzzed the inter-
com. “Chocolate ice cream,
please.”

James relished the chocolate
ice cream but refused to
identify the striped ball by
name.

“Da,” he said.

“I’m beginning to dream
that confounded expression,”
Dr. Rapp complained. “A
Roman centurion comes at me,
draws his sword, and says, ‘Da.’
Stop. An idea. Is it a phallic
symbol? Sexuality, begins with
conception. Is the child reject-
ing the facts of life?”

He buzzed the intercom.

“James, here is a banana.
Would you like a bite? Feel
free. Good. Good. Would you
like another? Then tell me what
this is. A ball. Ball. Ball. Ball.”

“Da.”

“I am failing,” Dr. Rapp said
despondently. “Perhaps I had
better go back to Dr. Da for a
refresher— What am I saying?
It’s Dr. Damon. Stop. An idea.
Damon and Pythias. A friend-
ship. Can it be that I have been
too clinical with James. I shall
establish fraternality.”

“Good morning, James. It’s
a beautiful October day. The
autumn leaves are glorious.
Would you like to go for a drive
with me?”

“Da,” James said. „

“Good. Good. Where would
you like to go?”

“To Rutgers,” James said,
quite distinctly.

“What did you say?”

“I said I would like to go to
Rutgers.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“But— good gracious— you’re
talking.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why haven’t you talked
before?”

“Because I damn well didn’t
want to.”

“Why are you talking now?”

“Because I want to see the
banks of the Old Raritan.”

“Yes, yes. I see. Or do I?”
Dr. Rapp buzzed the intercom.
“Please get me Dr. Da, I mean
Dr. Damon, on the phone. Tell
him I think I’ve made an
important discovery.”

“Discovery,” James said, “is
seeing what everybody else sees
but thinking what no one else
has thought. What’s your
opinion? Shall we discuss it on
the way to Rutgers?”

So the second summer came.
James and his father were
strolling the lawns in a hot
debate over the bearded irises
which, alas, James pronounced
iritheth. He had developed a
human lisp. The issue was
whether they should be picked
and vased or left alone. James
took the position that they
were delicate ladies who should
not be molested. His father,
always pragmatic, declared that
flowers had to justify their
existence by decorating the
house. Father and son parted
on a note of exasperation, and
the senior Dupree went to
inspect the peach trees. James

James Morrison Morrison stood
quietly on the lawn and looked
around. Presently he heard a
familiar Kaff Kaff, and the
Chairman appeared from under
the lilac bush.

“Well, if it isn’t my old
friend, the Sex Maniac. How are
you, sir?”

The cock pheasant glared at
him.

“And how are PhyUis and
Frances and Felice and all the
rest, Mr. Chairman?”

“Their names are, I say, the
nomenclature is, Kaff Kaff,
Gloria, Glenda, Gertrude, Godi-
va, and—” Here the Chairman
stopped short and looked hard
at James. “But you’re the
Monster.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My, how you’ve grown.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Have you learned how to
speak Them?”

“Not very well, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got a lisp. They say it’s
because I have a lazy tongue.”

“But you still speak Us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Amazing! I say, unheard
of!”

“Did you all think I’d ever
forget? I’m the Prpfessor’s best
pupil, and I’d die for dear old
Rutgers. Can we have an
emergency meeting right away
in the Big Red Schoolhouse,
Mr. Chairman? I’ve got a lot to
teU you about the crazy,

THE ANIMAL FAIR
mixed-up human creatures.”

* * *

The meeting was attended
by most of the regulars, plus a
few newcomers. There was a
Plymouth Rock hen who had
become close friends with Miss
Leghorn, perhaps because her
only reply to the Chaldean
harangues was, “Ayeh.” The
holdout mockingbird had at last
joined up now that Jack
Johnson seemed to be remain-
ing in the Florida keys. . . his
(the mockingbird’s) name was
Milton. There was one most
exotic new member, a little
Barbary ape who was very
friendly but extremely shy.
James shook hands and asked
his name.

“They called ^ me. . .well,
they called me 'I’he Great
Zunia. Knows All. Does All.”

“Who’s ‘they,’ Zunia?”

“The Reeson & Tickel
Circus.”

“You were in the circus?”

“Well. . . yes. I. . . I did
tricks. Knows All. Does All. I
was what they. . . what they
call a headliner. You know.
Rode a motorcycle with the
lights on. But I. . . I. . .”

“Yes?”

“But I cracked up when
we. . . when we were playing
Princeton. Totaled the bike. I
got. . . well. . . I split when they
were picking up the pieces.”

“Why did you run away,
Zunia?”

“I. . . I hate to say this. . .
never blow the whistle on
another man’s act. . . but. . .
well. . . I hate show business.”

“Zunia, we’re all delighted
that you’re here, and you know
you’re more than welcome, but
there’s a problem.”

“Well. . . gee. . . just a little
fruit now and then, apples
and—”

“Not food. The weather.
Winters can be damn cold on
Red Hill farm. Don’t you think
you might be more comfortable
farther south?”

“Well. . .if it’s all the same
to. . . well. I’d rather stay here.
Nice folks.”

“If that’s what you want,
great for us. My parents are
going to have fits if they ever
see you, so stay under cover.”

“I’m a night-type anyway.”

“Good. Now stand up,
please. All the way up, and
we’ll stand back to back.
Professor, are we the same
size?”

No answer.

“Professor?”

Moe Mole said, “The profes-
sor is indisposed.”

“What?”

“He couldn’t come.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not feeling so good.”

“Where is he?”

“Up in his study.”

“I’d better go and • No,

wait. Are we the same size,
Zunia and me? Anybody?
Everybody.”

It was agreed that James and
Zunia were an approximate
match. James promised to
pinch some of his sweaters and
wooly underwear for Zunia to
wear during the winter months.

“If you. . . well. I’m not
asking. . . but I’d love a sweater
with Boston on it.”

“Boston! Why Boston?”

“Because they hate show
business.”

James shinnied up one of the
rough oak columns that sup-
ported the barn roof, walked
across the heavy beam above
the empty hay loft as casually
as a steelworker (his mother
would have screamed at the
sight), came to a small break in
the loft wall and knocked
politely.

A faint voice said, “Who is
it?”

“It’s the Monster, sir. I’ve
come back.”

“No! Really? Come in.
Come in.”

James poked his head
through the break. The Profes-
sor’s study was lined with moss.
There were fronds of dried grass
and mint leaves on the floor on
which the Professor lay. He
looked very ill and weak, but
his albino red eyes were as
fierce as ever.

“Well, James, you’ve come
back,” he panted. “I never

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

thought— Do you . speak
Them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you still speak Us. I
would never— Phi Beta Kappa
and cum laude for you. No
doubt of it.”

“I visited Rutgers, sir.”

“Did you. Did you, now.
And?”

“It’s beautiful, just like you
said,” James lied. “And they
still remember you.”

“No!”

“Yes, sir. They can’t under-
stand how you escaped. They
think you probably bribed the
lab attendant, but a few claim
you had something on him.
Blackmail.”

The Professor chuckled, but
it turned into a painful hacking.

After the spasm subsided
James asked, “What’s wrong,
sir?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Probably
a touch of the Asiatic flu.
Nothing serious.”

“Please tell me.”

The Professor looked at him.
“Science is devotion to truth,”
he said. “I’ll be truthful. I’m
badly wounded.”

“Oh, sir! How?”

“An air rifle. A couple of
farm boys.”

“Who are they? From the
Rich place? I’ll-”

“James! James! There is no
room' for revenge in science.
Did Darwin retaliate when he
was ridiculed?”

i ur: animal fair

3.3

“No, sir.”

“Did Pastour?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Will you be true to what
I've taught you?”

“I’ll try, sir, b-but those
damn boys. . .”

“No anger. Reason always;
anger never. And no crying,
James. I need your courage
now.”

“If I have any, sir.”

“You have it. I remember
George. Now I want you to
take my place and continue my
classes.”

“Oh, Professor, you’ll be—”

“I take it you’re on speaking
terms with your father now.
Learn all you can from him and
pass it on to Us. That’s an
order, James.”

“Yes, sir. It won’t be easy.”

“Nothing is ever easy. Now
I’m going to ask for an act of
great courage.”

“Sir?”

“I can’t linger like this. It’s
too painful and it’s useless.”

“Professor, maybe we can—”

“No, no. I’m hopeless. If
you hadn’t cut my anatomy
classes when you fell in love
with Paula, you’d—” He hacked
again, even more painfully. At
last he said, “James, end this
for rhe, as quickly as possible.
You know what I mean.”

James was stupefied. At last
he managed to whisper, “S-
sir. .

“Yes. I see you understand.”

“Sir, [ c-couldn’t.”

“Yes you can.”

“B-but I wouldn't know
how.”

“Science always finds a
way.”

“At least let me ask my—”

“You will ask no one. You
will tell no one.”

“But you leave me all alone
with this.”

“Yes, I do. That’s how W’e
grow up.”

“Sir, I have to refuse. I can’t
do it.” ^

“No. You just need time to
make up your mind. Isn’t there
a meeting on the floor?”

“Yes, sir. I asked for it.”

“Then go to your meeting.
Give them my best. Come back
quickly. Quickly.” The Profes-
sor began to tremble and rustle
on the dri^d grass.

“Have you had anything to
eat, sir? I'll bring you some-
thing, and then we’ll talk it
over. You have to advise me.”

“No dependence,” the White
Rat said. “You must decide for
yourself.”

The Chairman was in the fvdl
flood of oratory when James
dim bed down* from the loft and
seated himself with his friends,
the birds and the beasts, but he
came to a close fairly promptly
and gave the floor to James
James, who stood up and
looked around.

“I’m going to tell you about
Them,” James began quietly.

“I’ve met Them and lived with
Them, and I’m beginning to
understand Them. We must,
too. Many of Them are damned
destroyers— we all know that—
but what we don’t know is that
a new breed of Them is rising in
revolt against destruction.
They’re our kind. They live in
peace and harmony with the
earth; whatever they take from
it they return; they do not kill
and they fight those who do.
But they’re young and weak
and outnumbered, and they
need our help. We must help
them. We must!

“Now up to now we’ve done
nothing. We hide from the
destroyers and use our intel-
ligence to outwit them. We’ve
just been passive victims. Now
we must become activists,
militant activists. The Professor
won’t like this; thA’f ’ great
scholar still believes in reason
and light. So do I, but I reserve
reason and light only for those
who also are guided by reason
and light. For the rest, militant
action. Militant!

“I heard my father once tell
a story about Confucius, a very
wise sage of many years ago.
Although he was one of Them,
he was much like our Professor
and may have been almost as
wise. One of his students came
to him and said, ‘Master, a new
wise man named Christ has
appeared in the West. He
teaches that we must return

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

good for evil. What is your
opinion?’ Confucius thought
and answered, ‘No. If we return
good for evil, what then will we
return for good? Return good
for good; for evil return
justice.’ ’’

James’ voice began to shake.
“They shot the Professor. You
knew that, didn’t you. They
shot him. He’s not indisposed.
He’s up there and he’s hurting.
They— We must learn to return
militant justice for evil. We
can’t use this barn as a
sanctuary any more. We must
leave it when we graduate and
travel and teach. There is a
desperate battle being fought
for what little remains of our
earth. We must all join the
fight.”

“But how?” Moe Mole asked
reasonably.

“That will be the subject of
my first lesson tomorrow,”
James answered. “And now,
with the permission of our
distinguished Chairman, I
would like to move that this
meeting be adjourned. I have
the Professor to look after.”

“So moved,” the cock
pheasant said. “Seconded?
Thank you. Miss Plymouth.
Moved and seconded. This
meeting is adjourned.”

“Zunia,” James said, “wait
here for me, please. I’ll ne^ed
your help. Back in a little
while.”

James walked to the nearest

THE ANIMAL FAIR

apple tree, began picking up
fallen apples and hurling them
into space. His mother glanced
out of the kitchen window and
smiled at the sight of a small
boy happily lazing away a
summer afternoon.

“If I do what the Professor
asks, it’ll be murder,” James
thought. “They call it mercy
killing, but I’ve heard my father
say it’s murder all the same. He
says some doctors do it by
deliberately neglecting to give
certain medicines. He says
that’s murder all the same, and
he doesn’t approve. He says
religion is against it, and if you
do it you go to hell, wherever
that is. He says life is sacred.

“But the Professor hurts. He
hurts bad and he says there’s no
hope. I don’t want him to hurt
any more. I want the boys who
shot him to hurt, but not the
Professor. I could just bring him
a little milk and let him die all
by himself, but that could take
a long time. It wouldn’t be fair
to him. So— All right— I’ll go to
hell.”

James returned to the house,
lisped courteously to his
mother and asked for a small
cup of warm milk to hold him
until dinner time. He received
it, climbed upstairs to his room
and put the cup down. Then he
went to his parents’ bathroom.
He climbed up on the wash-
stand, opened the medicine
cabinet, which had been de-

dared off-limits for him on pain
of frightful punishment, and
took a small vial off one of the
shelves. It was- labeled “Seco-
nal” and was filled with bright
orange capsules. James James
removed a capsule, returned the
vial, closed the cabinet and
climbed down from the sink.

“What are you stealing?” the
Burmese princess asked.

“Medicine,” James answered
shortly and returned to his
room. He pulled the capsule
open and shook its contents
into the cup of milk. He stirred
gently with his forefinger.

“Mercy, James, you’ll have
to put your humor on a diet.
It’s gaining weight.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not feeling
funny right now. Princess. In
fact I feel damn rotten lousy.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I. can’t, tell you. I can’t tell «
anybody. Excuse me.”

He carried the cup of milk to
the Big Red Barn where the
Great Zunia was patiently
waiting. “Thanks,” James said.
“Now look. I’ve got to shinny
up that column, and I can’t do
it and carry this cup. You can,
easy. Go up with the cup. Don’t
spill it. I’ll meet yoE on the
beam.”

They met on the beam and
James received the cup.

“It looks like milk but it
tastes funny,” Zunia said.

“You didn’t drink any!”

“Well, no. . . just stuck my

tongue in. .. you know. Cur-
ious. It’s. . . well, ' traditional
v^ith us.” ’

“Oh. That’s all right. It’s
medicine for the Professor.”

“Sure. Tell him. . . tell him
get well soon.”

“He’ll be well soon,” James
promised. Zunia flipflopped
and catapulted himself to
another empty loft. James
crossed the beam and knocked
at the Professor’s study. “It’s
James again, sir.”

He could barely hear the
“Come in.” He poked his head
in. The Professor was trembling.
“I brought you a little
something, sir. Warm milk.”
James placed the cup close to
the Professor’s head. “Please
drink a little. It’ll give you
strength.”

■Trhpossible.”

“For me, sir. You dwd that
much to your best pupil. And
then we’ll discuss your pro-
posal.” James waited until he
saw the White Rat begin to
drink. He withdrew his head,
sat down on the beam and
began to chat lightly while tears
blurred his eyes.

“Your proposal. Professor,
raises an interesting dilemma in '
the relationship between teach-
er and pupil. Let me tell you
about my lunatic teacher at the
remedial school. Dr. Rapp, and
my relations with him. I’d value
your opinion. How is the milk,
sir?”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“Tertible. Did you say'
lunatic?”

“Drink it anyway. Yes,
lunatic. He’s a psychiatrist,
excessively educated, and—” ‘

“There' is no such thing.”

“Not for a genius like
yourself, sir, but in lesser
people too much education
produces alienation from real-
ity. That was Dr. Rapp.”

“You must be specific,” the
White Rat said severely.

“Well, sir, let me contrast
him with yourself. You always
understand the capacity and
potential of your students and
treat them accordingly. Dr.
Rapp was so crammed with
education that he never bother- ■
ed to understand us; he simply
tried to fit us into the textbook
cases he’d read.”

“Hmmm. What was: his
school?”

“I was afraid you’d ask that,
sir. You won’t like the answer.
Abigail College.”

“What? What?”

“Abigail College, sir. Finish-
ed your milk?”

“Yes, and it was disgusting.”

“But you sound stronger
already, sir.”

“Where is Abigail College?”

“In a state called Kansas.”

“Hmp! Fresh-water college.
No wonder.” The Professor’s
speech began ^to slur. James
began to rock back and forth in
agony.

“What would you do if

THE ANIMAL FAIR

this. . . this Abigail made same
proposal to you, James?”

“Oh, sir, that’s not a fair
question. I don’t like or respect
Dr. Rapp. I love you.”

“No place— f ’love— in

science.”

“No, sir. Always be objec-
tive. That’s what you taught
me.”

“Gett’n sleepy. . .James. . ,
’bout Zunia.”

“What about Zunia, sii'?”

“Like him?”

“Very much, sir. You’ll
enjoy teaching him.”

“Don’t. . . d’not le’him. . .
eame to us f’m Princeton, you
know. . . d’nt let’m talk you
into going Princeton. Yes?”

“Never, sir. Rutgers for-
ever.”

There was a long, long pause.
The painful rustling in the
study stopped. James poked his
head in. The cup of milk was
empty. The Professor was
peacefully dead. James reached
in, picked him up, carried him
across the beam and skinned
down the oak column with the
body in one hand. On the main
floor he stamped his foot hard,
three times. He repeated the
signal three times. At last Moe
Mole appeared from the depths.

“That you, James?”

“Yes. Please come with me.
Uncle Moe. I need your help.”

Moe shuffled alongside
James James, blinking in the
twilight. “Trouble, James?”

“The Professor’s dead. We’ve
got to bury him.”

“Now that’s a shame. And
we never started my astronomy
lessons. "Where’s the body?”

“Right here. I’m carrying
him.” James led Moe to the
sundial on the south lawn. “Dig
here, Uncle Moe. I want to bury
the Professor under the center
of the pedestal.”

“Easy,” Moe said. He tun-
neled down and disappeared,
little flurries of earth sprayed
out of the tunnel mouth.
Presently Moe reappeared. “All
set. Got a nice little chamber
dead center. Where is he now?”

James placed the body at the
mouth of the tunnel. Moe
pushed it before him and was
again lost from sight. He
reappeared in another flurry of
soil. “Just filling in,” he
explained apologetically. “Got
to pack it solid. Don’t want any
gi'ave robbers nosing around, do
we?”

“No,” James said. “Bury
him for keeps.”

Moe finished the job,
mumbled a few words of
condolence and shambled off.
James stared hard at the
sundial. “Militant,” he said at
last and turned away. The
weathered bronze plate of the
sundial was engraved with a line
from the immortal Thomas
Henry Huxley: “The great end
of life is not knowledgf' i>ul
action.” ■

IF YOU WANT TO MAKE A
million dollars with science
fiction, what you have to do is
add pictures. It wouldn’t hurt,
also, to keep it simple. The
most impressive successes, fi-
nancially, in the fields of
fantasy and science fiction have
been not on the printed page
but on the movie screen and in
the funny papers.

Movies as a popular culture
category have been inspiring
lots of books for some years,
but it is only in the Seventies
that attention is being paid to
comic strips and comic books
by book publishers. Assuming
that science fiction readers are
also interested in looking at
science fiction drawings, and
maybe just funnies in general,
F&SF has asked me to now and
then review some of the new
books devoted to fcdmic books
and strips.

Everybody has grown a lot
since 1938. National Periodicals
has grown from a hole-in-the-
wall operation into the giant
publishing arm of an even more
giant conglomerate. Superman
has grown from a middle-sized
alien who could jump over
middle-sized buildings to the
huge muscle-bound “hip, com-
mitted Superman of the Seven-
ties.” E. Nelson Bridwell has
grown, as he tells us in his
breathless introduction, to SU-

RON GOULART

BOOKS

SUPERMAN: From The 30s to
the 70s, E. Nelson Bridwell, Ed.,
Crown, $10.00

POPEYE, E. C. Segar, Nostalgia
Press, $7.95

COMIX, Les Daniels, Outerbridge
& Dienstrey, $7.95
COMICS AND THEIR CREA-
TORS, Martin Sheridan, Luna
Press (Box 1049, Brooklyn, N. Y.
11202), $4.00

: BOOKS

I PERMAN: FROM THE SOS TO
i THE 70S, from a 6 V 2 -y ear-old
: Mickey Mouse fan into a hip
committed comic book editor
of the Seventies.

In the earliest episodes
reprinted in this compilation,
‘ Superman uses his miraculous
powers on a small scale, even
having the time to drop in at
211 Court Ave. to reprimand a
wife beater. He seems to enjoy
his abilities. He shows off,
lifting hoods’ streamlined 1938
: cars over his head, wisecracking
as he leaves a thug on top of a
telephone pole. The early
Superman was a pacifist, too. In
his second adventure he con-
, Vinces two warring nations that
“it’s obvious you’ve been
fighting only to promote the
sale of munitions!” Gradually,
however, he takes to fighting
bigger and better villains, such
as Luthor, “the mad scientist
who plots to dominate the
earth,” and to going up against
the Axis nations during World
War II.

Today’s Superman is indeed
hip (even Clark Kent is hip and
wears purple suits, yellow shirts
and wide ties). He has long
shaggy hair and spends a good
deal of his time at rock concerts
and rapping with cause-oriented
youths. There are still mad
scientists, but they are more
interested in causing campus
unrest and committing vast acts
of pollution. What’s happened

39 I

over the three decades repre- |
sented in this book is that [j
Superman has become more Ij

aware of his young audience. I

Back in 1938 E. Nelson Bridwell !]
and thousands like him didn’t !
care about munitions makers
and wife beater^ but Superman
went after them anyway.

Since this collection was put
together under the eye of the
people who control the Super-
man copyright and is edited by
a man who is still employed by
them, it is silent oa certain
aspects of Superman history.

For instance, in his nine page
introduction Bridwell manages
not to mention by name Jerry
Siegel and Joe Shuster, the two
Cleveland science fiction fans
who created Superman in the
early Thirties and spent years
tryingj^ 9 ,.gdl it. But at least the
Siegel & Shuster names havQ
been left on some of the early
stories. Wayne Boring, whose
work makes up nearly a third of
the book (commencing with
page 198) and whose drawing
of Superman appears on the
cover, is not mentioned at all.
These omissions are nearly as
interesting as what’s been
included in the collection, and I
look forward to a Superman
history some day that goes
beyond nostalgia.

Meanwhile, if you just want
to look at pictures, and ignore
the sociological and financial
implications, this is a fair

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

sampling of the high spots of
the man of steel’s long career.

Those who know Popeye
only from early morning
animated cartoons may not
realize he was a pioneer super
hero or that many of his early
adventures had a good deal of
science fiction and fantasy to
them. The newspaper strips
reprinted in POPEYE, a com-
plete year’s run from the
middle 1930s, involve the
indestructible sailor with invis-
ibility, ESP, witchcraft, magic
and the fourth dimension.

Technically E.C. Segar was
probably the worst cartoonist
to work for Hearst in the 20s
and 30s (the things fellow
Hearst artists like Herriman,
DeBeck and McManus could do
are much beyond Segar), but
he was a highly quirky and
individual man. He also had a
peculiar and eccentric sense of
humor. These strips, devoted to
Popeye’s encounters with the
mythical little animal known as
a jeep, with the Sea Hag and
with sundry lowlifes and
crooks, are funny. Funny like
no one else’s strips. Though
Segar could use old burlesque
gags, he also had the ability to
make humor out of his own
materials. He also had a highly
personal sense of timing. One
simple sequence here, where the
villain tries to steal the magic
jeep from Popeye, goes on for

almost a month, with a new
jeep-stealing gag every day.

All in all, this is an
entertaining book of lowbrow
f^tasy. Bill Blackboard’s intro-
duction is informative, though a
little overzealous.

Les Daniels’ COM IX is a •
well-intentioned attempt to
present not only a history of
the comic book but a history of
the comic strip as well. In a 200
page book which is half
illustrations this means he has
to talk fast and telescope a
good deal of information.
Fortunately there is a biblio-
graphy, so readers can use it to
check the full texts from which
Daniels has clipped his bits of
history, insight and sociological
comment. The only chapter he
seems to have thought up on his
own is the one wherein he
attacks, at high pitch and great
length, psychiatrist Frederick
Wertham. Wertham had the
temerity, nearly two decades
ago, to suggest that some of the
eye-jabbing, face-stomping and
disemboweling then in some
comic books was a little
excessive.

On the positive side, a good
deal of interesting old comic
book pages are reprinted,
including a complete Donald
Duck episode by long-unsung
Disney artist Carl Barks. Dan-
iels, though, seems to suffer
from whatever the visual

BOOKS

equivalent of a tin ear is, maybe
a glass eye. He will write
glowingly in the text of the
splendid work of a specific
artist on a specific feature.
When you turn to the section
illustrating that specific feature,
you will find a sample done by
an artist not mentioned at all.
It’s not clear whether Daniels
couldn’t get the samples he
hoped for, or whether he
simply doesn’t recognize the
work of the cartoonists he’s
talking about. Anybody who
can confuse the late Lou Fine
with a second-rate girlie artist
like Bill Ward, as Daniels does
in his section on Blackhawk, is
not the most perceptive of
graphic historians.

COMICS AND THEIR
CREATORS first appeared thir-
ty years ago. Back then not too
many people were concerned
with the funnies as an American
idiom or an important manifes-
tation of popular culture.
Sheridan was content with
presenting quick m£^azine-style
profiles of several dozen of the
comic artists then active and
illustrating them with pictures
of the cartoonists and samples
of their strips.

He is no great prose stylist,
and his history is fuzzy in spots,

Startling evidence
that modern science
confirms the reality
of telepathy,
clairvoyance,
precognition, and
psychokinesis

THE ROOTS OF
COINCIDENCE

An Excursion into
Parapsychology

by ARTHUR KOESTLER

$5.95, now at your
bookstore
RANDOM yV

but Sheridan had the advantage
of questioning most of his
subjects first hand. At the time
he did the book this meant he
could talk to George McManus,
Rudolph Dirks, George Herri-
man. Milt Gross, Bud Fishef,
Alex Raymond, Ed Wheelan
and several other major figures.
Sheridan covers adventure
strips, science fiction strips,
humor strips and even gag
panels. An enjoyable book gnd
a welcome paperback reprint.

"Skinburn," as you'll soon see, is not your usual -n
espionage story, as might be expected from Philip
Farmer, long one of thp most original and inventive
. thinkers in the sf field (or out of it, as evidenced by
his latest book, TARZAN alive. Doubleday, a
definitive biography of Lord Greystoke that
establishes, among many other things, that Tarzan lives!)

Skinburn

by PHILIP JOSE FARMER

“YOUR SKIN TINGLES
every time you step out-
doors?” Doctor Mills said.
“And when you stand under
the skylight in your apartment?
But only now and then when
you’re standing in front of a
window, even if the sunlight
falls on you?”

“Yes,” Kent Lane said. “It
doesn’t matter whether or not
it’s night or day, tVie skies are
cloudy or clear,, or the skylight
is open or closed. The tingling is
strongest on the exposed parts
of my body, my face and hands
or whatever. But the tingling
spreads from the exposed skin
to all over my body, though it’s
much weaker under my clothes.
And the tingling eventually
arouses vaguely erotic feelings.”

The dermatologist walked
around him. When he had
completed his circuit, he said,
“Don’t you ever tap?”

“No, I just peel»and blister. I

usually avoid burning by
staying' out of the sun as much
as possible. But that isn’t doing
me any good now, as you can
see. I look as if I’d been on the
beach all day. That makes me
rather conspicuous, you know.
In my work, you can’t afford to
be conspicuous.”

The doctor said, “I know.”

He meant that he was aware
that Lane was a private
detective. What he did not
know was that Lane was
working on a case for a federal
government agency. CACO— Co-
ordinating Authority for
Cathedric Organizations— was
short of competent help. It had
hired, after suitable security
checks, a number of civilian
agents. CACO would have hired
only the best, of course, and
Lane was among these.

Lane hesitated and then said,
“I keep getting these phone
calls.”

SKINBURN

The doctor said nothing.
Lane said, “There’s nobody at
the other end. He, or she, hangs
up just as soon as I pick the
phone up.”

“You think the skinburn and
the phone calls are related?”

“I don’t know. But I’m
putting all unusual phenomena
into one box. The calls started a
week after I’d had a final talk
with a lady who’d been chasing
me and wouldn’t quit. She fias a
Ph.p. in bioelectronics and is a
big shot in the astronautics
industry. She’s brilliant, charm-
ing, and witty, when she wants
to be, but very plain in face and
plane in body and very nasty
when frustrated. And so. . .”

He was, he realized, talking
too much about someone who
worked in a top-secret field.
Moreover, why would , Mills
want to hear the sad story of
Dr. Sue Brackwell’s unrequited
love for Kent Lane, private eye?
She had been hung up on him
for some obscure psychological
reason and, in her more rational
moments, had admitted that
they could never make it as
man and wife, or even as man
and lover, for more than a
month, if that. But she was not,
outside of the laboratory,
always rational, and she would
not take no from her own good
sense or from him. Not until he
had gotten downright vicious
over the phone two years ago.

Three weeks ago, she had

_ 43

called him again. But she had
said nothing to disturb him.
After about five minutes of
light chitchat about this and
that, including reports on their
health, she had said good-by,
making it sound like an ave
atque vale, and had hung up.
Perhaps she had wanted to find
out for herself if the sound of
his voice still thrilled her. Who
knew?

Lane became aware that the
doctor was waiting for him to
finish the sentence. He said,
“The thing is, these phone calls
occurred at first when I was
under the skylight and making
love. So I moved the bed to a,
corner where nobody could
possibly see it from the upper
stories of the Parmenter Build-
ing next door.

“After that, the phone
started ringing when^yer I took
a woman into my apartment,
even if it was just for a cup of
coffee. It’d be ringing before I’d
get the door open, and it’d ring
at approximately three-minute
intervals thereafter. I changed
my phone number twice, but it
didn’t do any good. And if I
went to the woman’s apartment
instead, her phone started
ringing.”

“You think this lady scien-
tist is making these calls?”

“Never! It’s not her style. It
must be a coincidence that the
calls started so soon after our
final conversation.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“Did your women also hear
the phone?”

Lane smiled and said, “Au-
diohallucinations? No. They
heard the phone ringing, too.
One of them solved the
problem by tearing her phone
out. But I solved mine by
putting in a phone jack and
disconnecting the phone when I
had in mind another sort of
connection.”

“That’s all very interesting,
but I fail to see what it has to
do with your skin problem.”

“Phone calls aside,” Lane
said, “could the tingling, the
peeling and blistering, and the
mild erotic reactions be psy-
chosomatic?”

“I’m not qualified to say,”
Mills said. “I can, however, give
you the name of a doctor
whose specialty is recom-
mending various specialists.”

Lane looked at his wrist-
watch. Rhoda should be about
done with her hairdresser. He
said, “So far. I’m convinced I
need a dermatologist, not a
shrink. I was told you’re the
best skin doctor in Washington
and perhaps the best on the east
coast.”

“The world, actually,” Doc-
tor Mills said. “I’m sorry. I can
do nothing for you at this time.
But I do hope you’ll inform me
of new developments. I’ve never
had such a puzzling, and,
therefore, interesting, case.”

Lane used the phone in the

ground-floor lobby to call his
fiancee’s hairdresser. He was
told that Rhoda had just left
but that she would pick him up
across the street from the .
doctor’s building.

He got out of the building
just in time to see Rhoda drive
his MG around the corner,
through a stoplight, and into
the path of a pickup truck.
Rhoda, thrown out by the
impact (she was careless about
using her safety belt), landed in
front of a Cadillac. IJespite its
locked brakes, it slid on over
her stomach.

Lane had seen much as an
adviser in Vietnam and as a
member of the San Francisco
and Brooklyn police depart-
ments. He thought he was
tough, but the violent and
bloody deaths of Leona and
Rhoda within four months was
too much. He stood motionless,
noting only that the tingling
was getting warmer and spread-
ing over his body. There was no
erotic reaction, or, if there
were, he was too numb to feel
it. He stood there until a
policeman got the nearest
doctor, who happened to be
Mills, to come out and look at
him. Mills gave Lane a mild
sedative, and the cop sent him
home in a taxi. But Lane was at
the morgue an hour- later,
identified Rhoda, and then
went to the precinct station to
answer some questions.

SKINBURN

He went home prepared to
drink himself to sleep, but he
found two CACO agents,
Daniels and Lyons, waiting for
him. They seemed to have
known about Rhoda’s death
almost as quickly as he, and so
he knew that they had been
shadowing him or Rhoda. He
answered some of their ques-
tions and then told them that
the idea that Leona and Rhoda
might be spies was not worth a
second’s consideration. Besides,
if they were working for
SKIZO, or some other outfit,
why would SKIZO, or whoever,
kill their own agents?

“Or did CACO kill them?”
Lane said.

The two looked at him as if
he were unspeakably stupid.

“All right,” Lane said. “But
there’s absolutely no evidence
to indicate that their deaths
were caused by anything but
pure accident. I know it’s quite
a coincidence. . .”

Daniels said, “CACO had
both under surveillance, of
course. But CACO saw nothing
significant in the two women’s
behavior. However, that in itself
is suspicious, you know. Nega-
tive evidence demands a posi-
tive inquiry.”

“That maxim demands the
investigation of the entire
world,” Lane said.

“Nevertheless,” Lyons said,
“SKIZO must’ve spotted you
by now. They’d have to be

blind not to. Why in hell don’t
you stay out from under
sunlamps?”

“It’s a skin problem,” Lane
said. “As you must know, sinci
you’ve undoubtedly bugged
Doctor Mills’ office.”

“Yeah, we know,” Daniel,
said. “Frankly, Lane, we got
two tough ' alternatives to
consider. Either you’re going
psycho, or else SKIZO is on to
you. Either way. . .”

“You’re thinking in two-
valued terms only,” Lane said.
“Have you considered that a
third party, one with no
connection at all with SKIZO,
has entered the picture?”

Daniels cracked his huge
knuckles and said, “Like who?”

“Like whom, you mean.
How would I know? But you’ll
have to admit that it’s not only
possible but highly probable.”

Daniels stood up. Lyons
jumped up. Daniels said, “We
don’t have to admit anything.
Come along with us. Lane.”

If CACO thought he was
lying, CACO would see to it
that he was never seen again.
CACO was mistaken about him,
of course, but CACO, like
doctors, buried mistakes.

On leaving the apartment
building. Lane immediately felt
the warm tingling on his face
and hands and, a few seconds
later, the spreading of the
warmth to his crotch. He forgot
about that a moment lain

when Daniels shoved him as he
started to get into the back seat
of the CACO automobile. He
turned and said, “Keep your
dirty hands off me, Daniels!
Push me, and I may just walk
off. You might have to shoot
md to stop me, and you
wouldn’t want to do that in
broad daylight, would you?”

“Try it and find out,”
Daniels said. “Now shut up and
get in or get knocked in. You
know we’re being observed.
Maybe that’s why you’re
making a scene.”

Lane got into the back seat
with Lyons, and Daniels drove
them away. It was a hot June
afternoon, and evidently the
CACO budget did not provide
for cars with air conditioning.
They rode with the windows
down while Lyons and Daniels
asked him questions. Lane
answered all truthfully, if not
fully, but he was not concen-
trating on his replies. He
noticed that when he hung his
hand out of the window, it felt
warm and tingling.

Fifteen minutes later, the big
steel doors of an underground
garage clanged shut behind him.
He was interrogated in a small
room below the garage. Elec-
trodes were attached to his
head and body, and various
machines with large staring
lenses were fixed on him while
he was asked a series of
questions. He never found out

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

what the interpreters of the
machines’ graphs and meters
thought about his reactions to
the questions. Just as the
electrodes were being detached.
Smith, the man who had hired
Lane for CACO, entered. Smith
had a peculiar expression. He
called the interrogators to one
side and spoke to them in a low
voice. Lane caught something
about “a telephone call.” A
minute later, he was told he
could go home. But he was to
keep in touch, or, rather, keep
himself available for CACO. For
the time being, he was
suspended from service.

Lane wanted to tell Smith
that he was quitting CACO, but
he had no desire to be
“detained” again. Nobody quit
CACO; it let its employees go
only when it felt like it.

Lane went home in a taxi
and had just started to pour
himself a drink when the
doorman called up.

“Feds, Mr. Lane. They got
proper ID’s.”

Lane sighed, downed his
Scotch and, a few minutes later,
opened the door. Lyons and
two others, all holding .45
automatic pistols, were in the
hall.

Lyons had a bandage around
his head and some Band-Aids
on one cheek and his chin. Both
eyes were bloodshot.

“You’re under arrest. Lane,”
Lyons said.

SKINBURN

In the chair in the interroga-
tion room, attached once again
to various machines, Lane
answered everything a dozen
times over. Smith personally
conducted the questioning,
perhaps because he wanted to
make sure that Lyons did not
attack Lane.

It took Lane ten hours to
piece together what had hap-
pened from occasional com-
ments by Smith and Lyons.
Daniels and Lyons had followed
Lane when he had been released
from CACO HQ. Trailing Lane
by a block, Daniels had driven
through a stoplight and into the
path of a hot rod doing fifty
miles an hour. Daniels had been
killed. Lyons had escaped with
minor injuries to the body but a
large one to the psyche. For no
logical reason, he blamed Lane
for the accident.

After the interrogation, Lane
was taken to a small padded
room, given a TV dinner, and
locked in. Naked, he lay down
on the padded floor and slept.
Three hours later, two men
woke him up and handed him
his clothes and then conducted
him to Smith’s office.

“I don’t know what to do
with you,” Smith said. “Ap-
parently, you’re not lying. Or
else you’ve been conditioned
somehow to give the proper— or
perhaps I should say, improper
—responses and reactions. It’s
possible, you know, to fool the

machines, what with all this
conscious control of brain-
waves, blood pressure, and so
on being taught at universities
and by private individuals.”

“Yes, but you know that 1
haven’t had any such training,”
Lane said. “Your security
checks show that.”

Smith grunted and looked
sour.

“I can only conclude,” he
said, “from the data that I have,
that you are involved in
counterespionage activity.”

Lane opened his mouth to
protest, but Smith continued,
“Innocently, however. For
some reason, you have become
the object of interest, perhaps
even concern, to some foreign
outfit, probably Commie, most
probably SKIZO, CACO’s worst
enemy. Or else you are the
focus of some wildly improb-
able coincidences.”

Lane couldn’t think of
anything to say to that. Smith
said, “You were released the
first time because I got a phone
call from a high authority, a
very high authority, telling me
to let you go. By telling, I mean
ordering. No reasons given.
That authority doesn’t have to
give reasons.

“But 1 made the routine
checkback, and I found out
that the authority was fake.
Somebody had pretended to be
him. And the code words and
the voice were exactly right. S«>,

somehow, somebody, probably
SKIZO, has cracked our code
and can duplicate voices so
exactly that even a voiceprint
check can’t tell the difference
between the fake and the
genuine That’s scary, Lane.”

Lane nodded to indicate that
he agreed it was scary. He said,
“Whoever is doing this must
have a damn good reason to
reveal that he knows all this
stuff. Wliy would a foreign
agent show such a good hand
just to get me out of your
clutches, uh, custody? I can’t
do anyone, foreign agent or
not, any good. And by revealing
that they know the code words
and can duplicate voices, they
lose a lot. Now the code words
will be changed, and the voices
will be double-checked.”

Smith drummed his fingers
on the desktop and then said,
“Yes, we know. But this
extraordinary dermal sensitiv-
ity. . .these automobile acci-
dents. . .”

“What did Lyons report
about his accident?”

“He was unaware of any-
thing wrong until Daniels failed
to slow down on approaching
the stoplight. He hesitated to
say anything, because Daniels
did not like back-seat drivers,
although Lyons was, as a matter
of fact, in the front seat.
Finally, he was unable to keep
silent, but it was too late.
Daniels looked up at the signal

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

and said, ‘What in hell -you
talking about?’ and then the
other car hit them.”

Lane said, “Apparently Dan-
iels thought the signal was
green.”

“Possibly. But I believe that
there is some connection
between the phone calls you
got while with your women and
the one I got from the supposed
high authority.”

“How could there be?” Lane
said. “Why would this, this
person, call me up just to ruin
my love making?”

Smith’s face was as smooth
as the face on a painting, but
his fingers drummed a tattoo of
desperation. No wonder. A case
which could not even give birth
to a hypothesis, let alone a
theory, was the ultimate in
frustration.

“I’m letting you go again,
only this time you’ll be covered
with my agents like the North
Pole is with snow in January,”
Smith said.

Lane did not thank him. He
took a taxi back to his
apartment, again feeling the
tingling and warmth and mildly
erotic sensations on thewvay to
the taxi and on the’ way out of
it.

In his rooms, he contemplat-
ed his future. He was no longer
drawing pay from CACO, and
CACO would not permit him to
go to work for anybody else
until this case was cleared up.

SKINBURN

In fact, Smith did h'ot want him
to leave his apartment unless it‘
was absolutely necessary / Lane
w^ to. stay in it and force 'the
unknown agency to corne to
him. So how was he to support
himself? He had enough money
to pay the rent for another
month and buy food for two
weeks. Then he would be
eligible for welfare. He could
defy Smith and get a job at
nondetective work, say, a
carryout boy at a grocery store
or a car salesman, He had
experience in both fields. But
times were bad, and jobs of any
kind were scarce.

Lane became angry. If
CACO was keeping him from
working, then it should be
paying him. He phoned Smith,
and, after a twelve-minute
delay, during which Srnith was
undoubtedly checking back
that it was really Lane phoning,
Smith answered.

“I should pay you for doing
nothing? How could I justify
that on the budget I got?”

“That’s your problem.”

Lane looked up, because he
had carried the phone under the
skylight and his neck had
started tingling. Whoever was
observing him at this moment
had to be doing it from the
Parmenter Building. He called
Smith back and, after a
ten-minute delay, got him.

“Whoever’s laying a tap-in
beam on me is doing it from

any of the floors above the
tehth. I' doh’’f think he could
angle in from a lower floor.”

■ “I know, ’ Smith said. “Hve
had men in the Parmenter ;
Building since yesterday. T
don’t overlook anything
Lane.”

Lane ' had intended to ask
him why he had overlooked the _
fact that they were undoubted
ly being overheard at this
moment. He did not do so
because it struck him that
Smith wanted their conversa-
tions to be bugged. He was keen
to appear overconfident so that
SKIZO, or whoever it was,
would move again. Lane was
the cheese in the trap., However,
anybody who threatened Lane '
seemed to get hurt or kiUed
and Smith, from Lane’s view
point, was threatening him*

During the next four days,
Lane read Volume IV of the
Durants’ The Story Of Civiliza-
tion, drank more than he
should have, exercised, and
spent a half hour each day,
nude, under the skylight. The
result of this exposure was that
the skin burned and peeled all
over his body. But the sexual
titillation accompanying th e
dermal heat made the pain'
worth it. If the sensations got
stronger each day, he’d be
embarrassing himself, and poss-
ibly his observers, within a
week.

He wondered if the men at

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

the other end of the beam (or
beams) had any idea of the
gratuitous sexuality their sub-
ject felt. They probably
thought that he was just a
homy man with horny
thoughts. But he knew that his
reaction was unique, a result of
something peculiar in his
metabolism or his pgiment or
his whatever. Others, including
Smith, had been under the
skylight, and none had felt
anything unusual.

The men investigating the
Parmenter Building had c|ptect-
ed nothing suspicious beyond
the fact that there was nothing
suspicious.

On the seventh day. Lane
phoned Smith. “I can’t take
this submarine existence any
longer. And I have to get a job
or starve. So, I’m leaving. If
your storm troopers try to stop
me, I’ll resist. And you can’t
afford to have a big stink
raised.”

In the struggle that followed.
Lane and the two CACO agents
staggered into the area beneath
the skylight. Lane went down,
as he knew he would, but he
felt that he had to make some
resistance or lose his right to
call himself a man. He stared up
into the skylight while his
hands were cuffed He was not
surprised when the phone rang,
though he could not have given
a reasonable explanation of
why he expected it. ^

A third agent, just entering,
answered. He talked for a
moment, then turned and said,
“Smith says to let him go. And
we’re to come on home.
Something sure made him
change his mind.”

Lane started for the door
after his handcuffs were un-
locked. The phone rang again.
The same man as before
answered it. Then he shouted at
Lane to stop, but Lane kept on
going, only to be halted by two
men stationed at the elevator.

Lane’s phone was being
monitored by CACO agents in
the basement of the apartment
building. They had called up to
report that Smith had not given
that order. In fact, no one had
actually called in from outside
the building. The caU had come
from somewhere within the
building.

Smith showed up fifteen
minutes later to conduct the
search throughout the building.
Two hours later, the agents
were told to quit looking.
Whoever had made that call
imitating Smith’s voice and
giving the new code words had
managed, somehow, to get out
of the building unobserved.

“SKIZO, or whoever it is,
must be using a machine to
simulate my voice,” Smith said.
“No human throat could do it
well enough to match voice-
prints.”

Voices!

SKINBURN

Lane straightened up so
swiftly that the men. on each
side of him grabbed his arms.

Doctor Sue Brackwell!

Had he really talked to her
that last time, or was someone
imitating her voice, too? He
could not guess why; the
mysterious Whoever could be
using her voice to advance
whatever plans he had. Sue had
said that she just wanted to talk
for old time’s sake. Whoever
was imitating her might have
been trying to get something
out of him, something that
would be a clue to. . .to what?
He just did not know.

And it was possible that this
Whoever had talked to Sue
Brackwell, imitating his. Lane’s,
voice.

Lane did not want to get her
into trouble, but he could not
afford to leave any possible
avenue of investigation closed.
He spoke to Smith about it as
they went down the elevator.
Smith listened intently, but he
only said, “We’ll see.”

Glumly, Lane sat on the
back seat between two men,
also glum, as the car traveled
through the streets of Washing-
ton. He looked out the window
and through the smog saw a
billboard advertising a rerun of
The Egg and I. A block later, he
saw another billboard, advertis-
ing a well-known brand of beer.
“SKY-BLUE WATERS,” the
sign said, and he wished he were

in the land of sky-blue waters,
fishing and drinking beer.

Again, he straightened up so
swiftly that the two men
grabbed him.

“Take it easy,” he said. He
slumped back down, and they
removed their hands. The two
advertisements had been a sort
of free association test, provid-
ed only because the car had
driven down this route and not
some other it might easily have
taken. The result of the
conjunction of the two bill-
boards might or might not be
validly linked up with the other
circuits that had been forming
in the unconscious part of his
mind. But he now had a
hypothesis. It could be devel-
oped into a theory which could
be tested against the facts. That
is, it could be if he were given a
chance to try it.

Smith heard him out, but he
had only one comment.
“You’re thinking of the wildest
things you can so you’ll throw
us off the track.”

“What track?” Lane said. He
did not argue. He knew that
Smith would go down the trail
he had opened up. Smith could
not afford to ignore anything,
even the most farfetched of
ideas.

Lane spent a week in the
padded cell. Once, Smith
entered to talk to him. The
conversation was brief.

“I can’t find any evidence to

FANTASY- AND SCIENCE FICTION

support your theory,” Smith
said.

“Is that because even CACO
can’t get access to certain
classified documents and proj-
ects at Lackalas Astronautics?”
Lane said.

“Yeah. I was asked what my
need to know was, and I
couldn’t tell them what I really
was trying to find out. The next
thing I’d know. I’d be in a
padded cell with regular ses-
sions with a shrink.”

“And so, because you’re
afraid of asking questions that
.night arouse suspicions of your
sanity, you’ll let the matter
irop?”

“There’s no way of finding
out if your crazy theory has
any basis.”

“Love will find a way,” Lane
said.

Smith snorted, spun around,
and walked out.

That was at 11 A.M. At
12:03, Lane looked at his
wristwatch (since he was no
longer compelled to go naked)
.and noted that lunch was late.
A few minutes afterwards, an
Air Force jet fighter on a
routine flight over Washington
suddenly dived down and hit
CACO HQ at close to 1000
mph. It struck the massive
stone building at the end
opposite Lane’s cell. Even so, it
tore through the fortress-like
outer walls and five rooms
before stopping.

Lane, in the second subfloor,
would not have been hit if the
wreck had traveled entirely
through the building. However,
flames began to sweep through,
and guards unlocked his door
and got him outside just in
time. On orders transmitted via
radio, his escorts put him into a
car to take him across the city
to another CACO base. Lane
was stiff with shock, but he
reacted quickly enough when
the car started to go through a
red light. He was down on the
floor and braced when the car
and the huge Diesel met. The
others were not killed. They
were not, however, in any
condition to stop him. Ten
minutes later, he was in his
apartment.

Doctor Sue Brackwell was
waiting for him under the
skylight. She had no clothes on;
even her glasses were off. She
looked very beautiful; it was
not until much later that he
remembered that she had never
been beautiful or even passably
pretty. He could not blame his
shock for behaving the way he
did, because the tingling and
the warmth dissolved that. He
became very alive, so much so
that he loaned sufficient life to
the thing that he pulled down
to the floor. Somewhere in him
existed the knowledge that
“she” had prepared this for him
and that no man might ever
experience this certain event

SKINBURN.',-, , :

again. But the knowledge was
so far, off that it influenced him
not at all.

Besides, as he had . told
Smith, love would find a way.
He was not the one who had
fallen in love. Not at first. Now,
he felt as if he were in. love, but
many men, and women, feel
that way during this time.

Smith and four others broke
into the apartment just in time
to rescue Lane. He was lying on
the floor and was as naked and
red as a new-born baby. Smith
yelled at him, but he seemed to
be deaf. It was evident that he
was galloping with all possible
speed in a race between a
third-degree burn and an
orgasm. He obviously had a
partner, but Smith could
neither see nor hear her.

The orgasm might have won
if Smith had not thrown a big
pan of cold water on Lane.

Two days afterwards. Lane’s
doctor permitted Smith to
enter the hospital room to see
his much-bandaged and some-
what-sedated patient. Smith
handed him a newspaper turned
to page two. Lane read the
article, which was short and all
about EVE. EVE— Ever Vigilant
Eye— had been a stationary-
orbit surveillance satellite which
had been sent up over the east
coast two years ago. EVE had
exploded for unknown reasons,
and the accident was being
investigated.

5,3

“That’s all the public was
told,” Smith said. “I finally got
through to Brackwell and the
other bigwigs connected with
EVE.: But either they , were
under orders to tell me as little
as possible or else they don’t
have all the facts themselves. In
any event, it’s more than just a
coincidence that she — EVE, I
mean— blew up just as we were
taking you to the hospital.”

Lane said, “I’ll answer some
of your questions before you
ask them. One, you couldn’t see
the holograph because she
must’ve turned it off just before
you got in. I don’t know
whether it was because she
heard you coming or because
she knew, somehow, that any
more contact would kill me. Or
maybe her alarms told her that
she had better stop for her own
good. But it would seem that
she didn’t stop or else did try to
stop but was too late.

“I had a visitor who told me
just enough about EVE so I
wouldn’t let my curiosity carry
me into dangerous areas after I
got out of here. And it won’t.
But I can tell you a few things
and know it won’t get any
further.

“I’d figured out that Brack-
well was. the master designer of
the bioelectronics circuit of a
spy satellite. I didn’t know that
the satellite was called EVE or
that she had the capability to
beam in on 90,000 individuals

54 '

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Simultaneously. Or that the
beams enabled her to follow
each visually and tap in on their
speech vibrations. Or that she
could activate phone circuits
with a highly variable electro-
magnetic field projected via the
beam.

“My visitor said that I was
not, for an instant, to suppose
that EVE had somehow at-
tained self-consciousness. That
would be impossible. But I
wonder.

“I also wonder if a female
d e sign er-en gin eer-s dentist
could, unconsciously, of course,
design female circuits? Is there
some psychic influence that
goes along with the physical
construction of computers and
associated circuits? Can the
whole be greater than the parts?
Is there such a thing as a female
gestalt in a machine?”

“I don’t go for that
metaphysical crap,” Smith said.

“I^at does Brackwell say?”

“She says that EVE was
simply malfunctioning.”

“Perhaps man is a malfunc-
tioning ape,” Lane said. “But
could Sue have built her passion
for me into EVE? Or given EVE
circuits which could evolve
emotion? EVE had self-repair-
ing capabilities, you know, and
was part protein. I know it
sounds crazy. But who, looking
at the first ape-man, would have
extrapolated Helen of Troy?

“And why did she get hung

up on me, one out of the
90,000 she was watching? 1 had
a dermal supersensitivity to the
spy beam. Did this reaction
somehow convey to EVE a
feeling, or a sense, that we were
in rapport? And did she then
become jealous? It’s obvious
that she modulated the beams
she’d locked on Leona and
Rhoda so that they saw green
where the light was really red
and did not see oncoming cars
at all.

“And she worked her modu-
lated tricks on Daniels and that
poor jet pilot, too.”

“\^at about that holograph
of Doctor Brackwell?”

“EVE must’ve been spying
on Sue, also, on her own
creator, you might say. Or— and
I don’t want you to look into
this, because it won’t do any
good now— Sue may have set all
this up in the machinery,
unknown to her colleagues. I
don’t mean that she put in
extra circuits. She couldn’t get
away with that; they’d be
detected immediately, and
she’d have to explain them. But
she could have put in circuits
which had two purposes, the
second of which was unknown
to her colleagues. I don’t know.

“But I do know that it was
actually Sue Brackwell who
called me that last time and not
EVE. And I think that it was
this call that put into EVE’s
mind, if a machine can have a

SKINBURN

mind in the human sense, to
project the much -glamorized
holograph of Sue. Unless, of
course, my other theory is
correct, and Sue herself was
responsible for that.”

Smith groaned and then said,
“They’ll never believe me if I
put all this in a report. For one
thing, will they believe that it
was only free association that
enabled you to get eye in the
sky from ‘The egg and I’ and
‘Sky-blue waters’? I doubt it.
They’ll think you had knowl-
edge you shouldn’t have had
and you’re concealing it with
that incredible story. I wouldn’t
want to be in your shoes. But
then, I don’t want to be in my
shoes.

“But why did EVE blow up?
Lackalas says that she could be
exploded if a destruct button at
control center was pressed. The
button, however, was not
pressed.”

“You dragged me away just
in time to save my life. But
EVE must have melted some
circuits. She died of frustra-
tion— in a way, that is.”

“What?”

“She was putting out an
enormous amount of energy for
such a tight beam. She must
have overloaded.”

Smith guffawed and said,
“She was getting a charge out
of it, too? Come on!”

Lane said, “Do you have any
other explanation?” H

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THE MIRAGE PRESS
Dept FF

5111 LIBERTY HEIGHTS AVE.
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND 21207

Sterling Lanier's British brigadier,

Donald Ffellowes, has been a most welcome

addition to these pages during the last

several years, and the first seven

stories in the series (ranging from

"Soldier Key," August 1968 to ".His Coat

So Gay," July 1970) have recently been

collected and published by Walker & Co.

under the titleTHE PECULIAR EXPLOITS OF

BRIGADIER FFELLOWES. Here is a new one. Enjoy.

And the Voice of
the Turtle ....

by STERLING E. LANIER

WE HAD A SCIENTIST AT
the club on this particular
evening. One of the members
had brought him as a guest, and
he joined us after dinner in the
library,- He was a museum
biologist, from the American
Museum of Natural History, I
think, but it may have been the
Smithsonian. He had a beard,
but a neat one, and was
civilized in all ways. I forget his
name, but he was a reptile
expert, a herpetologist, and he
was one of those men who are
not really happy unless wading
in a tropical marsh somewhere,

up to the neck in mud and
malaria. He spoke with great
enthusiasm of his last trip, to
some appalling swamp in West
Africa, where he had found out
that the local crocodiles dug
holes rather than building nest
mounds, as did some close
relatives elsewhere. I never fully
grasped the exact importance of
this discovery, but it obviously
meant a lot to him. He told the
story well, too, and could laugh
at himself, over his difficulties
with the local people, who
thought all crocodiles ought to
be killed ©n sight. They could

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE

never grasp what he was trying
to do, that is, in simply
watching them dig nests. A very
interesting fellow, and the talk
was only marred by Mason
Williams commenting loudly
“that it was a relief to hear
from a real expert for a change
and not have to listen to more
of Ffellowes’ baloney!”

Ffellowes, our British brig-
adier (I sometimes think of him
as the grenadier, but he always
says his commission was in the
artillery), was not in the room,
at least at the beginning of the
story, but I suddenly looked up
and saw him standing outside
the circle, smoking a cigar. He
had just appeared, in that way
he has, one minute absent, the
next present. He said nothing,
but listened quietly, until the
visitor happened to get on the
subject of turtles. Then, in the
next break in the conversation,
when Professor Jones, or
whatever his name was, had
finished a story about sea
turtles mating, he asked, “Did
you ever know a man named
Strudwick? A specialist in your
field, I believe.” (The name, by
the way, was not anything like
Strudwick, but some relative
might read this account, and I
have no desire to be sued for
libel).

Our visitor grew pretty
excited. “I knew him very well;
as a matter of fact, I did some
of my graduate work under

him. A real genius, but a strange
man. He vanished in the Pacific,
I believe, some years back,
though I forget the details.”

“I knew him slightly,” said
Ffellowes quietly. “And he was
certainly strange.” He did not
elaborate on his remarks, and
Williams snorted audibly.

Eventually whoever had
brought the scientist took him
away and a number of others
left also. Williams, alas, was not
one of them. He had grown to
know Ffellowes well enough to
scent a story as well as the rest
of us regulars, and though he
never tires of denouncing the
brigadier’s tales as total fabrica-
tions, he never missed one if he
could manage to get into the
circle. As usual, Ffellowes
ignored him, or treated him
rather with the scrupulous
courtesy used for unusually
aged and stupid waiters and
doormen. Williams, I think,
would have disliked him less if
he had walked up and belted
him with a straight left. But,
Ffellowes being Ffellowes, this
was impossible.

Ffellowes smiled when we
asked if there were a story
concerning the missing scientist
he had inquired about.

“Indeed there is. I don’t
mind telling it. But I warn you
it is quite odd. There are a
number of things about the
whole thing that were, so to
speak, left hanging, loose ends.

A very peculiar business, from
beginning to end.” I settled
back to listen with an audible,
or almost audible, sigh of
satisfaction, and I noticed
others do the same.

“I was on leave from a job in
Singapore. Let’s see, that would
have been in 1940. Things were
on fire in Europe; London was
burning night and day; the
Jerries had France, the Low
Countries, Norway and what
all. I kept trying for active
duty, and kept being shoved
back into one odd job after
another, like that thing in
Kenya that I told you about.*

“At any rate, I was due for a
spot of leave, and it was
decided by a rather intelligent
superior of mine, that one
could have some fun and still
do some work. He knew I liked
poking about in the world’s
backwaters.

“We were not too happy
then about the situation in
some of the Dutch islands
below us. They had Java and
Sumatra under firm political
control all right, but we kept
hearing about trouble in the
smaller, less well-patrolled
places, some of the old
Somerset Maugham settings,
you know. It was obvious that
Brother Jap, whom I had
already met in other areas, was
only waiting for a chance to

*His Only Safari (F & S P, February
1970)

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

jump us, and we felt that our
Dutch neighbors might be
neglecting some of the classic
soft underbelly. There were
reported meetings of Bajau
pirates, of whom plenty existed
then, and probably still do,
with dissident petty rajahs,
Moro bandits from up in the
Philippines and so on. Our
intelligence people in north
Borneo and Sarawak were
getting edgy, feeling that there
might be a widespread uprising
at a time when we all needed to
concentrate on a northern
invasion. It seemed to want
looking into.

“When you consider,” he
added, his smooth, ruddy face
putting on a rueful appearance,
“how badly we ourselves
messed up the actual Jap
invasion when it did come, it
seems we were a bit silly to
worry about this other and, as
it turned out, minor matter.
Still, I make no apologies for
my mission. Hindsight makes
things only too evident that are
invisible at the time. Half or
more of any given intelligence
mission is ridiculous to begin
with, becomes more so as it
goes on and usually ends up
totally irrelevant. Still, as I say,
one never knows, not in
advance.

“The scheme we worked out
was for me to hire a large prau,
a native sailboat, in Sandakan,
and then noodle down the

AND THE VOICE -OF THE TURTLE •>

islands on a poor .. man’s,
yachting- cruise, picking , up
what scraps I •, could &om
natives, informers, . our .local
agents '(mostly w:orthless, I may
say, the latter), and generally
trying to find out what was
what. We .. briefed' our .Dutch
opposite numbers, . and they .
didn’t care for it;. but since their
government and xjueen were
now pensioners in : England,
they had to agree, like it or not,
and keep hands off, too. .

“It was a lovely trip, if one
doesn’t mind trading sunsets for
bedbugs and the loveliest seas in
the world for appalling grub.
Bad Malay cooking is even
worse than bad English' cook-
ing, but fortunately in those
days I had a stomach of proof
steel.”

“Who said there was any
good English cooking,” mum-
bled Williams, but he might as
well not have spoken for all the .
attention Ffellowes paid..

“We called at Manado, in the .
north of Celebes, and then :
.sailed on doWn through the
Molucca Passage. In the middle ^
of the; Molucca Sea lie the Sula
Islands, lovely places or were ,
then, quite unspoiled and full
of white beaches, cdco : paints
and pleasant , folk. I used to
mourn them privately when the
Jap fleet made the waters
bloodTred later on. And it was
there, from a most charrhing
man, a self -exiled : Norwegian

5a,.

who.: had. settled as, a- trader,,
years before; that I heard first •
of Pulau Tuntong, the Islaiid qf
the- Turtle, and also, incidently, ,
. otDr. and Mrs. :Strudwick. ,

“I shall not attempt to give
you , my Norwegian .chum’s
accent, but under it, he spoke
fairly intelligible if ‘American’
English, as well as fluent
Malay— Buginese, the local talk,
into which he would . switch
when seeking a hard w,»rd. 1
used to -speak fairish Malay
myself, so we got along welL
enough.

“ ‘That’s a funny place, Mr.
Ffellowes. Only a few natives
and they are not liked much
either, sort of pmiahs, like they
have up in. India. They seem to
have always lived there, and the
other peoples in these ; parts
never i go there, . and they
themselves, they never leave, .
neither. But I can’t say, they
ever give trouble, no killings or
nothing. The Dutch Controleur
here, he don’t never go. there, .
and no ships: call, no . Chink
traders ;eve.n,i and they go
anywhere they .can for a profit,
with them Old, beat-up junks. I
never been there, but they say
there ain’t no harm in the place.
Anyone can. go there, if you see
what I mean, but no one does.
Except i for the American and
his wife. They are; there right
now, been there six months
about. I forward their mail in
my own boat once a month.

They’re some kind of scientists,
studying turtles, they said. It’s
supposed to be a great place for
turtles. Guess that’s how it got
its name. But the whole thing,
by Joe, even looks like a turtle.
One maybe three miles, long,
that is half in the water, with
only the point of the head
sticking out, which is another
little island, maybe a quarter
mile from, shore, from the big
one.

“ ‘How far? Maybe thirty
miles southeast, as the crow is
flying from .here. Lots of bad
reefs and no good anchorage. I
wouldn’t like to be there in a
storm, I tell you. The place is
always foggy, too. All kinds of
mineral sinks and steams and
smokes, so it takes a good wind
to give you a view of the whole
thing. Must be a capped volcano
or something. Lots of these
islands are, but I never heard
that this one blew or nothing.
Just the steams and smokes all
the time, like Yellowstone Park
in the U. S., or some of our
warm springs back in Norway.
But it is a kind of place that
makes you— well— discom-
fortable. My boys don’t like to
go there, never go ashbre, and
they leave plenty quick, too.’

“He rambled on, but I got to
wondering to myself. Who were
these Americans and what were
they doing there? The Dutch
had said nothing of them to us,
and this was odd. It may have

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

been that they had forgot, but
they kept pretty careful ac-
count of traveling Caucasians in
their islarids. There weren’t so
many then, you know. Up in
Malaya, we had picked up
several White Russians already,
types who . were the most
popular with the Japanese for
work in areas where they
themselves would be a stand-
out. And there were one or two
German agents in the Far East,
too, men who had dropped out
of sight at the beginning of the
war in ’39. We would dearly
have liked to know where they
were and what they were doing.
I had a radio on my prau, and I
tried to reach Sandakan and get
an enquiry passed to Washing-
ton via London. But the
damned thing was on the blink,
as I have always found these
devices to be when most
wanted. There were the Dutch
authorities in the Celebes of
course, but I had been warned
to avoid them except in a case
of dire emergency, which this
was not. What to do was a
puzzle.

“I finally decided to go have
a look-see myself. Old Ali, my
captain, was a Bugi himself and
passably, familiar with these
waters. As a matter of fact, he
was a reformed pirate, caught
by one of our gunboats robbing
a trading junk up in the
Anambas some years before.
My chief had interviewed him.

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE

got him a suspended sentence
and set him up as a handy type,
whenever we needed someone
for just such an offbeat mission
as my present one. His crew
were his sons and cousins, a
cheerful collection of sea
thieves, got by wives from every
race in Indonesia, I imagine,
since some were dark and some
light and all dressed differently.
But they jumped when the old
man said ‘frog,’ and he himself
had always proved utterly
trustworthy in his dealings with
us. There were nine of them, as
I recall, all hung about with
krises, bolos, kampilans and all
other known variety of edged
weapon found thereabouts. I
had a rifle and a Webley auto
pistol below, and the crew had
guns too, though I had them
kept out of sight. This was
quite normal, for we could very
easily have met pirates, of
whom, as I said, plenty were
still known to be operating.

“Ali waddled up when I
called from my cabin the next
morning, a short, rubbery old
thing, with a Fu-Manchu
mustache, stained red with
betel nut, a bald head and an
engaging black-stumped grin.
But the grin vanished when I
told him where I wanted to go.

“ ‘I have never been there,
Tuan. No one goes there. I
know we look for bad men,
men who would plot against the
British and the Dutch. You will

never find such people there. It
is a waste of time. Let us go
further south.’

“He was talking the Malay
lingua franca of the South Seas,
which is used from the China
Sea to the Australian coast. One
can be quite elaborate in it, and
he grew increasingly so, since it
was obvious that he did not at
all care for the proposed visit.
Now this was a really case-
hardened scoundrel, who had
weathered a dozen typhoons in
what amounted to skiffs, as
well as a thousand other
hair-curling experiences to
boot. I grew intrigued as he
persisted in trying to change my
mind, because I couldn’t
imagine what could scare him.
And he was scared.

“I finally announced that I
was going to Pulau Tuntong,
alone if necessary, and that if
no one of sufficient courage
would accompany me, I would
rent a one-man boat and go by
myself. As I thought, he had far
too much pride to take that. I
had been entrusted to him, and
he said he would go, even if all
the djins of Hell (he was some
kind of casual Moslem) stood in
the way. I got out our maps,
and the two of us sat down over
a bottle of horrible gutrot,
some form of arrack he liked,
to work out a course. I already
had interviewed the natives who
took the mail, and got what
they could teU me about the

trip, and between us, we figured
it out. The place might have
been thirty miles as the crow
flies, but it was nearer double
that if you didn’t want to get
wrecked. We were coming from
the north, and we had to land
on the south shore of the
island, which meant a long
detour to avoid the very
complex reefs. We decided to
leave at first light; no place at
all for running at night. After a
while the spirit, as I had hoped,
got to him, and he began to
recall what he had heard from
his grandmother or someone of
that vintage about the Island of
the Turtle. It was all very vague.

“There was a curse on the
place, that was clear. It had, the
curse, I mean, something to do
with the turtles themselves,
who swarmed there. When I
asked if he meant the sea
turtles, he said it did, but there
were many turtles on land, too.
This confused me for a
moment, since, as you may or
may not know, in England
everything not a large sea turtle
is called, confusingly, a tortoise,
even if it lives in fresh water. I
have since learnt that the rest of
the world uses that term for the
ones that live exclusively on
land. When I got this sorted
out, I continued to pump him,
but got little more that made
any kind of sense. The people
of the island were under the
curse too, but only if they left

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION '

the island; Then they died.
They had a turtle as a deity,
avoided strangers, and though
harmless in themselves, were
considered unlucky and good to
avoid. Mariners who were
ship-wrecked there simply never
turned up again. Even the
toughest Bajau and sea Dayak
pirates never went near the
place and hadn’t for as long as
tradition went back.

“Well, he finally reeled out,
his sarong or whatever dragging
on the deck, and I turned in
with my own thoughts. I had
hoped to carry some mail to the
alleged scientists, but my Norse
friend had sent some off only
the week before. An evening
with a steam kettle might have
told me something.

“Our trip down was unevent-
ful and we raised the anchorage
we were seeking in the evening.

I must say the place was not
cheerful looking. A low cliff
overgrown with scrub seemed
to stretch around the whole
island. It was hard to make out
details, because the fogs and
steams that my chum had
mentioned did indeed blanket
the landscape. Against the
sunset it was a sort of
whaleback of a thing, as one
could make out when the rifts
appeared in the mist, perhaps
five or six hundred feet high at
the top of the curve. There
were patches of dense vegeta-
tion and patches of bald rock.

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE

the latter gleaming wetly. Once
in a while, lighter areas showed,
which looked like sand. We
could see no beach, but I
remembered hearing that there
was a long one on the north
coast, which is where the great
sea turtles came to lay their
eggs.

“But we had found the
correct place all right. There
was a cluster of lights, perhaps
fifty or so, in front of us and
quite near to the water, and
higher up, and further to the
east, one small clump, in what
appeared to be a sort of shallow
dip or declivity. The Americans
were said to have built a real
house, which sounded curious,
but not wildly so, above the
village, and this must be its
lights. It could be nothing else,
since we had been told that the
entire population of the place
normally lived in this one
village, which lay before us.

“Night fell with the sudden-
ness of the tropics, and the
lights became hard to see, since
there was no wind once the
land breeze had fallen and the
fogs from the fumaroles (as I
guessed) shrouded the island in
a blanket. I decided, with the
hearty approval of the crew, to
lie to until morning, and go
ashore only when we could see
our way pretty clearly.

“I was sleeping soundly, my
leg over the long bolster known
as a ‘Dutch wife,’ waking only

to slap a mosquito which had
penetrated my net, when I
became conscious of a sound. I
can, to this day, think of
nothing that quite matches it,
but the bellow of an alligator in
a Florida swamp is somewhat
the same. This was not so
throaty nor so long lasting,
however. A sustained, almost
agonized grunt is not too far
off, but in the deep note there
was a treble as well, causing a
most unpleasant wailing effect.
I have seldom heard a noise for
which I cared less. I looked at
my wristlet watch and it was 3
PM. The noise ceased suddenly,
and there was nothing more but
the slap of tiny waves on the
hull of the prau.

“There was a scratching at
the sliding panel on my cabin,
which served as a door. I
opened it and found Ali holding
a torch, a flashlight, you’d say,
a small one with his hand over
the lens.

“ ‘You heard that, Tuan?’

“ ‘Yes. What do you think?
A crocodile?’

“ ‘Never! I have heard them
all my life. I do not know this
noise, nor my people either. We
are frightened. Let us leave this
place!’

“Well, I managed to send
him off after a while, feeling a
bit better, by pointing out that
it was, after all, only an odd
noise, perhaps even a night bird
with which he was unfamiliar. I

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

told him to set two of his crew
as an anchor watch, and have
them relieved every few hours.
We would see what morning
would bring.

“Morning brought no breeze,
a humid stickiness, the dim sun
shining through fog wraiths and
a distinct smell of sulfur, the
latter obviously emanating from
the island.

“We launched our small
boat, and with Ali at the helm
and me in the sterm, pistol
under jacket, we rowed in to
the place opposite the anchor-
age, where the village houses,
thatched with the usual nipa
palms, dimly could be seen.
There was a low place in the
cliff there, and we soon saw a
well-marked path leading down
to a place where one could step
out of the boat onto a sort of
rock platform. A small group of
natives were standing on this
waiting for us.

“As we drew in, I looked
closely at them. They were, to
my eye at least, innocuous.
They all wore the wraparound
skirt, though not with the usual
bright colors, and seemed in no
way very different physically to
any of a thousand other
Indo-Malayan types I had seen.
That is, they were short,
slightly built, had black hair,
brown skins and slanted black
eyes. They were all male, and
all unarmed, not even the
usually omnipresent kris being

tucked in the skirt top. The
only thing about them which
might be called unusual was a
sort of stoop-shouldered ap-
pearance, as if they all suffered
from the beginnings of a
hunchback condition. And one
other thing, an air of apathy
and disinterest. Most places that
see few visitors are very eager to
greet new arrivals. But these
chaps looked as if we were as
interesting as— well, a coconut
rind. They stood silently while
we moored the boat on a rock
projection, and only when I got
out did one step forward and
address me, in ordinary coast
Malay, the same I used with the
crew.

“‘Be welcome, Tuan.' He
said it listlessly, as if by rote, or
performing a set task, of no
interest or importance. He was
obviously the oldest, for he had
the worst stoop, but his
thinning hair was still jet black,
and he had no facial hair. Up
close he and the others had
another thing that was new to
me. Their skins looked glossy in
a strange way, almost as if they
were a rigid and not a flexible
covering, though they moved in
the same way as ours and one
could see the muscles. Some
disease, I thought, seemingly a
fungus condition. Perhaps they
were inbred.

“I answered politely and
asked if one of them could
show me to the house of the

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE

other Tuan and his Mem. They
looked blankly at one another,
but the elder simply motioned
me to follow and turned on his
heel. No one of them looked at
my men in the boat, but I did.
They, even Ali, were not even
trying to pretend they weren’t
frightened. They all looked
seasick. I told them to go back
to the ship and pick me up
around five o’clock that after-
noon. I didn’t see how the
Americans could refuse to give
me lunch at least.

“We walked slowly up
through the humidity of the
steams and vapors, which made
me cough a bit. The sulfur stink
was very strong now. The path
went through the village, laid
out in a simple row of big
communal houses on stilts, like
lots of others I had seen; and
then I got* my first surprise, I
almost stepped on a lot of little
turtles which were waddling
about on the path, right at the
village entrance. I had to skip a
bit to avoid them, and I noticed
that my guide did so auto-
matically. The little things paid
us no attention at all, and most
small turtles I have seen are
very shy, rush away or into
water at the glimpse of a man,
you know. A few women and
men (I saw no children)
watched apathetically as we
went by in line, the rest of the
lads who had come down to the
landing still bringing up the

rear. It was a peculiar sensation,
this utter lack of any interest at
all. Never seen anything like it
before or since.

“The fog grew denser on the
upslope on the far side of the
village, but the path was easy
enough to make out as one
went uphill. In places, it was
actually dark, as big trees and
vines leaned over it, and totally
windless and dank as well. I
heard no birds, no insects,
nothing at all but my own and
the others’ footsteps and water
dripping somewhere. Then, in
the darkest patch we had hit
yet, fog all around, came that
Godawful sound I had heard
the night before. The island
men all stopped, and so did I,
fumbling for my gun, I may
say, because the sound was very
close and very loud.

“ ‘Muaah, muaah, mu-
aaaaah!’ it came, like a colossal
and very sick cow, or perhaps a
diseased foghorn. Nasty!

“The men didn’t seem afraid
exactly, but I could feel them
tense up, the first show of any
feeling of any sort I had
noticed. The noise stopped, and
they promptly resumed their
march, me along with them. In
a few moments more, the path
opened into a large clearing,
and we had arrived.

“The mists were thinner
here, and the glow of the sun
could be seen in a blurred way
through them. In front of us

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

was a rather large hopse, made
of peeled logs, like a hupter’s
lodge father' although thfi roof
was thatched in the island way.
It too stood on stilts, of thin
logs, right agaihst a shoulder pf
thp hill itself, and had a wide
veranda riin'ning around the
front and one side, up to which
broad wooden steps had been
laid. It looked quite pretty, or
would have save for the
unearthly surroundings. There
were large pits of what looked
to be brown wet sand all about,
some with a scum of water on
the surfkce, and the •warmiih
was now almost sickening, like
an overdone greenhouse. The
path wound to the steps
between several of these pits
and seemed to be on a spine of
rock. And all about were
turtles.

“They were, of different
shapes hnd sorts, large and
small, some black, some brown,
some yellowish. One or two had
red markings on their shells.
Some had blunt heads, others
pointed, and one great whack-
ing chap had a leather platter
instead of a real shell, one of
the so-called ‘soft shells,’ as I
later learnt.

“To my surprise, the fellows
who had brought me faced
about and without a word
turned and marched back down
the path again, leaving me to
the turtles and the fog. I
quickly headed for the house

before I , heard that most
decidedly sick-ihaking noise
again,

“I had gone perhaps halfway
alpng the path, treading slowly
to avoid the turtles f; which
crawled freely over it and of
which the littlest were hard to
see, when suddenly I heard
steps. A white man in khakis
pame out of the door onto the
veranda and stood looking
down at me. You’ll never guess
what his first words were.

‘For God’s sake! What ape
you doing here, Ffellowes?’

“Now, the name of Strud-
wick, while not as common as
Smith, is not unknown in
England. It simply had never
occurred to me to recall this lad
at all. He had been a Rhodes
Scholar when I was doing my
two years at Cambridge, in ’21
that would be. An American
aind a brilliant student, he had
lived down the hall from me for
two terms, and we had got
rather friendly. We had never
written when he had left, and I
had completely forgotten he
had ever existed. And here he
was, pumping my hand warmlyi
in the most isolated island in
Australasia. Life is a funny
thing.

“ ‘Hallo, Strudwick,’ I said;
preserving my British phlegm as
best I could. ‘As a matter of
fact, old boy,: I’ve come to see
you, more or less to find out
what you Ye doing here. Pleast

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE

ant surprise, eh, or I hope so
anyway.’

“He was no fool. He looked
at me shrewdly and laughed.
‘Mysterious Americans attract
the attention of His Majesty’s
Government, hm? Well, I’m
glad to see you, though I don’t
encourage visitors. Haven’t had
any, as a matter of fact. But I
thought the Dutch looked after
this part of the world?’

“I lied, though only a bit,
and said they had called us in,
being short-handed, and that
seemed to go down all right. He
wasn’t really much interested
anyway, though he did seem
excited about something. By
this time we were in the house,
which was really very comfoi’t-
able. All the furniture was
obviously handmade and to
European specs. I gathei'ed he
must have had everything made
locally, but it was good work,
and there were flowers in bowls
and kerosene lamps on the
tables. He even gave me an iced
drink; had his own portable
generator, and that was a treat.

“We filled each other in on
the missing years for a bit, and
then he started suddenly to
talk.

“ ‘Let me tell you why I’m
here,’ he said, as quickly as
that. ‘You may have forgotten I
took a ‘zoo’ First (I had, of
course). Well, I’m a reptile
specialist. This tiny island is the
home of the damnedest collec-

tion of turtles that ever existed
in the world. I’ve done more
original work here in six
months than I ever did in the
rest of my life. You can’t
follow all this, I know, but it's
fantastic, and I know this field
as well as anyone alive. Why
there are types here that don't
belong in any family, genus or
species any scientist has ever
seen before!’

“He went on like a brook in
spate, while I relaxed with my
drink and tried to follow him as
well as I could. It seemed that
turtles, tortoises and all the
other things, like terrapins,
were pretty well mapped out.
No new ones had been found in
years, and very few save the sea
turtles, of course, went much to
the east of Java, Sumatra and
Borneo; that is, until one struck
New Guinea. There was a lot
about Wallace’s line, sort of a
zoological barrier, I gathered,
and what did and did not cross
it, all mixed up in the lecture.
Then came a flood of Latin
names, mostly meaningless to
anyone but another expert, like
the lad who was here at the
club earlier. New types of
Emydura, not supposed to be
here at all; a kind of
Geochelone no one had seen
anywhere; something that look-
ed like a cross between
Chelodina, or a type of it, and
an unknown Gcomyda variety,
which was flatly impossible.

but — occurred here. And so on,
until I was frankly bewildered.

“But there was one thing
which kept my attention pretty
well fixed through all this. I just
was not hearing the whole
story. One cannot do the work
I had done and not pick this
sort of thing up, you know. It
was, my work, I mean, in many
ways, not dissimilar to police
work, and I must have
interrogated hundreds of clever
types at one time or another.
Strudwick was not lying; his
enthusiasm was genuine all
right; that’s very hard to fake.
But he was keeping something
back. I could read it in his
body, in his rare sidelong
glance. Something was not for
ne to learn.

“Now I had no idea that the
chap was a spy. I could have
aeen wrong, but it was simply
lot in the cards, as I read the
man. But he had a secret and I
wondered what it was. A very
casual remark put me onto
something.

“He paused for breath, and I
had mentioned the hordes of
turtles and how tame they had
seemed. He smiled and was
about to speak when I added,

“ ‘And I hope whatever
makes that disgusting sound out
m the forest is equally tame.
Gave me the grue, when I heard
it, even out on the boat.’

“He caught his breath and
turned pale. He was a big

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

fellow, bigger than 1, clean-
shaven and with a goodish tan.
Now he went almost green.

“ ‘You heard that?’ His
question was almost a whisper.
It was echoed from the back of
the room. I totally forgot he
had a wife with him, and now
she came in from the back, still
muttering.

“Ethel Strudwick was big,
too. She was not pretty, a faded
blonde with hair stringy from
the damp and a hard eye. She
was also moderately drunk, and
this at about ten in the
morning. She wore the same
khakis, shirt and ‘ratting pants,’
as we used to call them, and
canvas shoes that he did. Her
make-up had run. Not a very
attractive sight.

“He mumbled an introduc-
tion, and I tried to be polite,
but she could not stop staring
at me and seemed to hear
nothing of what he said, as he
tried haltingly to explain who I
was and what I was doing there.
Not a pleasant woman, in looks
or manners, but I felt very sorry
for her. Because she was
terrified. It was obvious, when
one watched her for a minute
or two. Something or someone
had scared the living Hell out of
her, and my former hall mate
was equally jumpy, though
controlling it far better. She sat
down in a bamboo chair, and I
tried to pick up the conversa-
tion at the point whence it had

AND THE VOICE OP THE TURTLE

departed from the rails, so to
speak.

“ ‘Well, Strudwick, before
your wife came in, I mentioned
that strange cry in the forest. I
heard it last night, and it put
the wind up my crew pretty
thoroughly. What on earth was
it?’

“ ‘A bird— We don’t know—
Why did we ever come to this
awful place?— Just a bird!’ They
were both speaking together, he
repeating his nonsense about a
bird, she lamenting their arrival
and stay, neither paying the
slightest attention to the other.
It was unsettling to watch and
listen to.

“ ‘Look here!’ I said loudly.
‘May I stay the night? I have to
run over your papers and all
that. This is an official visit,
don’t JJ^ou know. Could I get
my things from the boat? It
would be a pleasant break for
me.’ I could think of no place I
wanted to stay less, but I was
intrigued, and they were ob-
viously in some kind of trouble.

“Mrs. Strudwick was de-
lighted and practically kissed
me. He was not nearly so
pleased, in fact not pleased at
all, but there was little he could
say.

“There seemed to be no
servants, and Strudwick walked
me down through the forest to
the landing himself. We heard
nothing on the way. The
villagers were moving slowly

and droopily about as wf
passed through their street^ and
we saw small and large turtles
the whole journey, though none
so many as just about the house
itself. My host explained that
he had heard rumors about the
island for years and had only
just been able to get the funds
and time to come there. The
locals were obliging enough to
work quite hard in building the
house and furniture and had
accepted the money he gave
them without haggling. What
they did with it, he had no idea.
They had no pigs or fowls, save
for a . few gone wild in the
jungle which covered much of
the place, and no traders called.
They grew rice, he thought, or
some crop in fields beyond the
village and fished in a desultory
way when the mood took them.
They refused to live in or near
the house, but were perfectly
amiable, if not forthgoing. He
had never been able to get them
to talk about turtles or
anything else, for that matter.
They provided him fruit and
coconuts, as well as rice and
even fish on occasion,, and did
not seem to care whether they
got paid or not.

“I mentioned the odd look
they all had, the rigid-looking
skin and the humped backs, and
suggested that some obscure
form of elephantiasis, added tc
prolonged inbreeding might be
responsible.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“ ‘I believe you’ve hit it. I’m
no anthropologist, but I’ll bet
that’s exactly what’s wrong
with them.’

“His agreement sounded
totally hollow to me, and I have
a good ear for this. I was sure of
one thing, though it made no
sense, which was that he had
some other theory of his own,
concerning which he wished me
to remain ignorant. ‘Curiouser
and curiouser,’ I reflected to
myself.

“When we got to the
landing, the prau was in plain
view, the fog being mostly
burned off at sea level, and the
small boat came in when I
'hailed. I went out, got my gear
and a change of clothes, and we
walked back up through the
miasmatic heat to the house on
the hill. I told Ali to keep a
strict watch on the landing
place and to come in at once if
he saw or heard me, or if I
signaled with my pocket torch
during the night. He agreed
promptly, and I thought I could
rely on him, so long as he
hadn’t got to come ashore
himself.

“Back in the building, Mrs.
Strudwick had taken some
pains to make up her face and
no longer looked so bedraggled
and miserable. She would never
be lovely, but she at least
looked decent, and she seemed
to have sobered up as well. I
learnt later that she was very

wealthy and that they had not
been married long. It must have
been her money which allowed
Strudwick to make this out-of-
the-way trip.

“He brought out all his
letters to officials for me to
glance over, and he came
well-recommended and was, as I
had surmised, more than
respectable from the scientific
standpoint. He had three
doctorates, I recall, one being
from Yale, and all sorts of
‘please aid the bearer’ notes,
signed by everyone from the
American Undersecretary of
State down. I solemnly made
notes of it all.

“After lunch, which was
mostly expensive tinned stuff
they had brought with them,
plus a little fruit and a lot of
gin, I asked Strudwick^why he
had selected the particular site
that he had for the house.

“ ‘The turtles, man, the
turtles. There are more of them
right here than anywhere else
on the island. These hot springs
or seeps seem to attract them,
and you soon get used to the
sulfur smell.”

“ 'You do!’ The venom in
his wife’s voice was naked.
‘Why can’t we get out of here?
You’ve seen every damned
turtle and its bloody grand-
mother that ever was! Why are
we staying here any longer?’
Her voice rose to a strident
pitch that was almost a scream.

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE

“ ‘Look, honey, it won’t be
much longer. I’ve told you that.
I need to get just a little more
information.’ His tone was
soothing, but I caught a nasty
glint in his eye. Whatever was
keeping them here, it was
important to him, and he did
not propose to have it
interfered with.

“ ‘Information! On what
prowls around this house on
dark nights! I’m going crazy—’
She got up and stumbled out of
the room and disappeared in
back somewhere, getting a
drink, I expect. Her last
sentence, unfinished, hung in
the steamy air of the room.

“I saw Strudwick looking at
me in a speculative way and felt
bound to make some remark.

“ ‘What was that about
something prowling around at
night? Your wife seems to have
a bad case of the jitters. Is it
wise to stay here under the
circumstances?’

“He took a long swallow of
gin before answering, gathering
his thoughts to sound convinc-
ing, it appeared.

“ ‘There is something here I
haven’t worked out yet, Ffel-
lowes. If it’s what I think, well,
it will be one of the great
zoological finds of the age. Hell,
of any age! I can’t give you the
details. First, it’s none of your
business. Second, you’d think I
was nuts. Christ Almighty, I
think I am nuts, sometimes.

Just bear with us, will you?
Ethel isn’t used to the tropics
or my burying myself in my
work either. The natives walk
about at night, and this makes
her nervous, though they’re
perfectly harmless.’ It was then
he told me the story of their
recent marriage and mentioned
that his wife had been both rich
and sheltered.

“I retired to the room they
had given me for a nap, but I
found it hard to sleep. I was
turning restlessly, when I
caught the sound of voices, not
too far away. I pricked up my
ears not only because they were
talking Malay, but because one
voice was Strudwick ’s deep-
chested rumble. I slid off the
rattan couch and out of my
window. I felt no compunction
about eavesdropping. I had no
great affection for my host, and
I had commenced to have a
great curiosity about whatever
he was doing. I soon found he
had told me a thumping lie in
one area at least.

“Behind some dense under-
growth at the corner of the
house he was talking to the
strange-looking villager, the old
one who had led me up to the
house that morning. I caught
only a snatch of conversation
before the native turned and
walked away, but it was an
intriguing item.

“ ‘It must be soon, or we
will find another, one of our

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

own. But the Father likes
yours. But it must be ?oon.’

“‘It will be soon!’ Strud-
wick’s answer was , low yet
intense. ‘But this new Tuan has
changed things. He must go,
first.’

, “ ‘It must be soon,’ was the
dull-toned answer.’ ‘The strange
Tuan is your business, not ours.
What do we care for Tuans? Or
the Father, either? Give him to
the Father. But he grows
impatient. They jail do. They
call. ’

“•With that remark, the man
left, drifting away between the
steaming muck holes until he
had vanished from sight around
a comer of the slope.

“I eeled back into my room,
taking care to make no noise.
So the locals never spoke about
anything, eh? And who was the
Father and what was he waiting
for and why was I supposed to
leave, or possibly be ‘given’ to
him, whoever he was? With all
these things chasing themselves
through my head, I finally did
drift off into an uneasy doze.
But my hand gripped my pistol
under the pillow. The Island of
the Turtle seemed to have
sinister overtones all of a
sudden.

“Supper, or rather tiffin,
that evening was strained.
Strudwick was very silent, and I
caught him more than once
looking at me in an unpleasant
and calculating way. He seemed

to be suppressing an air of
intense excitement. His wife
again was two-thirds blotto, and
at intervals would rouse herself
to relate some incoherent tale
of her past, usually involving a
dance at Bar Harbor or a
society scandal of her dead
youth in some -exclusive enclave
in Pennsylvania, Pittsburgh, I
think. The whole thing was
both depressing and eerie. I
excused myself as soon as I
decently could and retired. But
I did not undress, and I never
had my hand far from the gun.
A little nocturnal prowling on
my own account seemed to be
more than called for.

“The light, such as there was
under the sulfurous vapors of
the place, became suddenly
absent. Tropic sunsets didn’t
last long, but here there was a
dim light one moment, nothing
the next. I frankly preferred it
to the smoky haze of the day,
and I can get about in full dark
as well as most so-called savage
people that I have met. In
addition to my gun, I had. a
4-inch, single-bladed, clasp
knife, a tool I have often found
to be more useful in the dark
than any firearm.

“I went out through my
open window again. I could
hear nothing in the night but
water drip and the sound of a
faraway frog croaking. I placed
my feet carefully, whole foot at
a time, testing wherever I set

■VND THE VOICE OF THE E

down before placing my full
weight on the foot. I had my
torch, but I kept it in my
pocket for emergencies. The
pallid ghost of a full moon
appeared up over the fogs and
reeks, and I found I could see
quite well, if I concentrated.
Eyes need training to see in dim
light, and I had had more than
just a trifle, since it is a sense I
cultivate.

“Around the front of the
house I moved, and even with
care, I almost trod on a small
turtle more than once. They
appeared to be even thicker on
the ground than at the morning
hours, and after a while, I could
hear them moving in the silence
as my ears also grew attuned,
the scrape of tiny claws on the
rock path and an occasional
squelch as they moved into one
of the damper areas.

“Nothing happened to stir
my interest for a very long
time. I ignored the mosquitoes,
which is also a trick and a
necessary one, if one is to do
any proper stalking. I just kept
moving slowly about, resting
under a tree at intervals, then
going on again. The house was
silent. There were no lights, and
I gathered my host and hostess
were abed. She had taken on
enough gin to keep her
insensible until morning.

“Once I heard a vast,
heaving, sucking noise over to
the far side of the clearing, as if

a hippo were lurching out of
some mud, but it soon ceased. I
felt sure it was an internal gas
bubble in one of the warm
springs, erupting to the surface
and throwing the sand about. I
have seen the same thing in
New Zealand, where such mud
geysers are common.

“I must have been spooking
around for several hours, with
no incident of any kind, when
the quiet came to an abrupt
end. The house was still silent,
and I had reached the lower end
of the clearing in front of it,
near the base of the path, when
I heard a woman scream. The
cry was short in length, and I
felt sure it had been smothered.
There was only one woman on
this hill, and without thinking, I
drew my gun from my belt and
ran straight for where I knew
the house to lie, though it was
invisible through the mist.

“Now I had forgot those
stinking pools of sand and
water, and simply ran dead
ahead in a straight line. I had
cleared only a few yards when
my right foot went smack into
one and myself after it in a
spiral curve, head over heels.
But I kept hold of the gun,
which, by the way, was heavily
oiled and was loaded with
greased cartridges. My other
arm flailed about and hooked
on something hard, the edge of
the rock path. I was immersed,
for the sand was in suspension,

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

'ike quicksand, and seemed to
lave no bottom, but I had a
good grip and began to haul
nyself out. There was no pull
such as one finds in genuine
quicksand, and I was soon
halfway to the solid ground
with only my legs from the
knee down in the muck.

“Then — my ankles were seiz-
ed. There was no mistaking the
feeling. Something warm, mus-
cular and very powerful had
iwo death grips on my legs and
was exerting a steady pressure
o drag me back down into that
slop from which I had almost
succeeded in freeing myself! I
swear that not only was I being
gripped but that I could feel
fingers!"

We all sat silent, while
Ffellowes took a long pull on
his cigar. In passing, I noticed
that Williams had his mouth
open and was just as enthralled
:is the rest of us.

“I froze, but only for a
;econd,” resumed Ffellowes.
‘My first reaction was to try
ind get up, in other words a
oanicked one, simply to keep
truggling out the same way I
lad been pulling. My waist was
well up on the solid rock, and I
dropped the gun and used both
rands to try and haul myself
orward on my stomach. But it
vas no go. Whatever had me
was at least as strong as I and
iTom the feel probably stronger.

I couldn’t move an inch, and
the pressure to haul, that is to
haul me back down, never
slackened an inch. Then I got
the use of my brain back, and
tried to twist, so that I was now
on my side. This got me a little
ground, though not much, and I
tried it again,' gaining a few
more inches. Now I could see
the pool, or rather I could see
my legs, sunk in something. The
fog was so dense that the pool’s
surface was invisible. I never
thought of yelling, you know.
Something told me it would be
useless, and so the silent
struggle continued.

“By now, I was almost
sitting, and I shifted my right
hand to get a better grip. It was
only a few inches, but it was
almost the death of me.
^^hatever had hold of my legs
also pulled at just this point,
and the yank almost took me
the whole way back in!

“But it also saved me. I
scrabbled wildly with my right
hand seeking a stronger hold,
and the hand came down on my
pistol. As a wave of sand and
water eddied up around my
middle, spilled out of the sink
by my struggle, I wrenched
myself around further, thrust
the barrel down as close to my
leg as I could, while still
keeping it clear of the water,
mind you, and fired. I kept
firing as fast as I could squeeze
the trigger.

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE

“The thing must have come
up near the surface tb get a.
better grip bn me. TTiere was a
great final- heave and a flurry in
the muck. I dimly could make
out something brownish and
rounded emerging briefly from
the watery slime and ooze, but
it was hard enough to see any
detail. I could be sure of
nothing except that I had seen
something. Then, the stuff
subsided, and I was left with a
half empty gun, sprawled over
the edge of the pool. The
surface Was calm again under
the mist and vapor.

“I had not forgot that
scream. I staggered to my feet
and got out my torch. With that
in one hand and the gun in the
other, I headed for the house as
fast as I could. With the light of
the torch, the path was easy
enough to view, and I carefully
avoided the other pools. I made
no effort to avoid the turtles,
for there were none. For some
reason they all had disappeared.

“I lurched up the front step,
calling for Strudwick. There
was no answer and the house
was silent as a tomb. I tried to
control my panting breath and
listened. Not a sound broke the
night. I took the opportunity to
reload the automatic with fresh
.455 bullets. They had been
useful once that night already.

“Barely had this been done
when I did hear something.
From the higher shoulder of the

slope, behind the house and
above it, there came a repeti-
tion of that appalling cry I had
heard twice before. Loud and
long, it rang but in the silent,
steaming dark. ‘Muaah, iriu-
aaah!’ But this time it sounded
—well, different, with almost a
note of triumph, or impossible
as it sounds— laughter.

“I raced through the house,
no longer calling. The time for
it seemed” past, if it had ever
existed, There was a back door
and leading from it another
path. It suddenly occurred
to me that the house had been
built on the existing path. My
light showed that in the mud of
the path were many footprints,
some of feet shod with canvas
tennis shoes, the rubber cross-
hatching showing clearly. My
host and hostess had come this
way, bu,t so had others, many
with bare feet. ' Another path
joined this one a few yards
higher up the hill, and there the
new feet had come in. Some of
them, even in that moment,
looked strange, as if the feet
that made them wete blurred
and lurnpy. Not that I stayed to
examine them in detail, mind.
For that strange cry was ringing
out ahead of me again, and I
went on upward, keeping my
torch masked in my left fist,
which gave me enough Vision.
The moon was still up as well,
and 4;he mists were a trifle
thinner up here.

‘‘Thfe ttack Wouiid around
the base ’buttresses ' and out-
thrust roots of monstrous' trefes,
and ' vines ' and branches' hUng
over the way' ' sometimes
brushing niy face. 'But I had my'
wind back and went steadily
and softlyi And' all the while
that ghastly sound kept echoing
down the path, growing louder
and louder as I went on.

“I must have done a good
quarter mile, all steadily uphill,
when I saw a glimmer of light
ahead aiid slowed down a bit.
As I drew near, I saw that
another clearing lay ahead and
that it opened out under the
moon’s rays. I crept on .and
presently found myself looking
at something very strange
indeed.

“Two steep sides of the
island’s peak made an angle
here, though a shallow one.
They, the walls, were rock but
covered with mosses' and wet
growth that hung down over
the face. In front of the angled
steep, in the Y, was a broad,
flat place, and here was a much
larger replica of the small pools
such as lay in front of the house
below, a sinkhole two hundred
feet, across, filled with the same
dark water . and patches of
suspended sand as the ones
lower down. Around the wet
area was a strip of glistening
rock, this perhaps ten -yards and
a bit in width. And it was full
of people. The islanders- were

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

there in fotce, both men and
women. Agairi, ^ I ' sa-w , nb

* children. They stood silent,

* facing the pobl; arid in -the '
center, his back tb iriej was
Strudwick. He -was supporting '
his wife over one arm. She
appeared to have fainted, of
was, at best, semiconscious. '

“Now the light, and I must '
stress this, was most capricious.
That is, the moon would
illumine bits very clearly for a
second or two, and then the
drift of the fog and haze from '
the great pool would blot things '
out just as one was trying to
concentrate one’s gaze oh some
particular detail.

“But at the back of the
crowd there were figures Which
made my flesh crawl. 'Whatever ;
disease affected these people,
the ones in the last stages, or at
leasf'f' surmised, were not good '
to look upon. I could see long
swaying necks, covered with
leathery skin, and high, arched
humped backs which looked
rounded and hard. The terminal
stages of the peculiar island ;
blight ought not to have been
viewed at all, not by normal
people. All of the folk, though,
were swaying the same way,
their bodies still, but their '
necks weaving, as if in some
ghastly parody of those little
girls who do the formal Thai
and Javanese dances And all
were watching StrudwiCk and
hfs wife

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE

“Then came that terrible
coughing, moaning cry again.
And this time 1 saw, or at least
partly saw, whatever made it.

“I had not been watching
the pool as I edged closer, since
I was looking for possible
danger, being noticed by a
native or something. Now I saw
that the surface, the floating
sand and brown scum were
moving. And out of the water
had come a head.

“To this day, I have trouble
convincing myself I saw what I
think I saw. As the head rose
higher on a monstrous, rugose
neck. I half noticed the
beginning of a great rounded
dome of a back, glistening and
rigid in the unearthly moon
glow. But it was on the head
which I concentrated, because
it was moving, the whole
incredible thing was moving,
slowly with hardly a ripple,
directly toward where Dr.
Sylvanus Strudwick, Ph.D.,
author of more learned papers
than I can remember hearing,
stood holding his wife. And I
knew what it had come for, as
if I somehow had known all
along. This was the Father and
Ethel Strudwick was what it
wanted.

“You may ask what the head
resembled. It was high-domed
and leathery. Great flaps, or
ears, stood out on the side. The
pmfemouth was frankly disgust-
ing as it opened out for its

hideous call, for it projected
and there were no teeth, giving
it the look of a great beaked
maw. The eyes, as well as I
could make out, were large and
bulbous, of an unwinking black.
And as 1 watched, I saw
membranes slide across them
and lift again. Yet the most
awful thing concerning the
whole appearance, if I may so
describe it, was something not
physical at all. The thing was
intelligent. Whatever abysmal
lair had spawned it had given it
the same germ,, DNA or
whatever they call it now, that
had been given us. It was not a
beast, but somehow a hyena
would have looked clean by
comparison. Its size? Far larger
than a human, but how much I
really could not undertake to
say.

“It was now very close to
the edge of the rock surface.
And Strudwick had shifted his
grip on his wife. What madness
affected the man, I will never
know. Whether he hated her
anyway, no doubt with some
cause, or whether he had simply
made some foul bargain in the
interest of ‘pure science’ (I have
always distrusted scientists
most when they claim to be
pure, by the way), I will never
know. Certainly she feared him
and his purposes. With good
reason, since it was perfectly
obvious he was about to chuck
her into the grip of the

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

insane-looking form of mon-
strous life in front of him.

“I had to do something and
rather promptly. I tucked my
torch in my pocket, opened my
clasp knife, walked down to the
pack in front of me and simply
stabbed the nearest in the back, .
aiming high for the kidneys as a
certain Pathan had once taught
me, long before our com-
mandos perfected the tech-
nique. I managed to kill three in
three strokes, so hypnotized
were they, and then there was
no one at all between me and
my fellow Cantabrigian.

“I had kept my pistol in my
left hand. As I got clear of the
natives, none of whom seemed
capable of moving, I simply
called out, ‘Strudwick.’

“He turned and let his wife
slip to the ground, which was
what I had been praying for.
Above and behind him, the
impossible head rose higher on
the vast wrinkled neck, and the
great expressionless eyes fo-
cused on me. I ignored it for
the moment. Everything seem-
ed very plain and logical. There
really was no time for parleying
or argument.

“Strudwick must have read
my eyes, for he tried to put up
his hands. The moon was full
on his face as I put a bullet
through his brain, quite easy at
that range. He reeled backward
and fell into the muck with a
sodden splash. The echo of the

shot reverberated off the rock
face behind the pool. I had no
compunction about what I had
done and still do not.

“The Father was now about
six feet away and perhaps eight
above the surface of the pool. I
straddled Ethel Strudwick’s
body, which lay very still, and
raised my pistol. As I did so,
the thing’s mouth opened and a
rumble heralded the start of the
cry. I sighted very carefully and
fired three rapid shots into the
yawning pink gape, resting one
arm on the other forearm as I
did.

“I watched the death, for
my bullets had crashed up into
the brain through the roof of
the mouth, just as I intended.
And as the light went out of
those strange eyes and the giant
head slumped, I felt a queer
pang— well, no doubt you’ll
think me soft— almost of pity.
Who knows how old it was, nor
how long it had lived there?

“The great neck collapsed
and the vast dome sank back. A
wave of sulfurous water and
sand sloshed over my shoes as I
bent and lifted the woman. I
still had four shots, and I still
clung to the knife. I turned and
saw the beginnings of move-
ment in that circle of rapt faces.
They could not yet believe
what they had seen, but the
death of the Father and the
blast of the shots were
beginning to have an effect.

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE

even on such very dim and
peculiar minds as theirs.

“Then, and thank God for it,
the moon went out. Whether a
real cloud way up in the far sky
had crossed it or whether an
unusually heavy waft of the
local murk had done so, I
neither know nor care. The
effect was all I cared for.

“Lifting Mrs. Strudwick,
who was damned heavy, I ran
right back the way I had come.
In thirty very fast paces indeed,
I felt a tree bole in front of me
and dropped her. I tucked the
knife in my belt, still open, and
pulled out my torch. Then I
bent down and gave her face a
good hard slap. I was never
going to get down that hill
carrying a woman who must
have weighed little less than I,
and I had to get her on her legs.
I jammed the gun into my belt
next to the knife and hauled
her to her feet. She moaned,
but her eyes were open. I
slapped her again, hard enough
to sting, but not disable, and
draped her arm over my
shoulder. I could hear move-
ment behind us now, and a
grunting, cracking sound that
reminded me more of the
Father’s voice than anything
that ought to issue from human
lips. The opposition could not
be expected to stay quiescent
forever.

“I shone the torch about,
and there was the entrance to

the path, just a few feet away. I
ran toward it, forcing her to use
her feet at least a touch and
thus take some of the weight
off me. My light was still the
only one, but as we entered the
trail and headed down, the
moon came out again. The
mumbling behind us now
swelled into a yell, through
which ominous grunts came all
too clearly. I got a speedy
notion that the village ‘elders,’
the gentry with the high backs
and long necks, might not be
too slow in action either.

“Down that slippery, twist-
ing track we went like a couple
of good ones. After a brief
spurt she seemed to wake up at
last and took her arm away. She
was still shaky, not surprisingly,
but she got along at a pretty
fair clip, and I handed her the
light at the next bend. She kept
it on the path, which was good
enough for me and enabled me
to get my gun back in my hand.
The cries behind us were getting
louder, and some of them
sounded like echoes of the
‘Muaah’ thing. Worse, though I
said nothing, I thought at one
point that I caught an echo of
the same cry ahead of us. I had
hoped the whole population
would be up on the hill,
indulging in what passed for
church services, but it might be
a mistaken hope. Well, 1 still
had my weapons.

“Suddenly, sooner than I

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

had hoped, the house was
before us. We tore into it,
through the open back door,
and into the dark living room.
Here I caught her by the arm.
The hue and cry was a bit
further back now, and I had an
idea. I have mentioned that
there were kerosene lamps
about on the tables.

“I struck a match and
grabbed one, which looked full.
I lighted it and quickly looked
for more. ‘Kerosene,’ I gasped,
‘pour it about as fast as you
cah.’

“She got the idea finally and
began sloshing the lamp con-
tents over the room as fast as I.
I smashed the one lighted lamp
into the biggest pile of papers I
could see, some of her late
husband’s unpublished discover-
ies, I expect, and serve him
right. The house was full of
bamboo stuff, and even in this
damp climate that would bum.
Also, the house itself was only
wet on the outside and had had
time to dry out a lot since the
months in which it had first
been built. The room went up
like a bonfire behind us, and I
shoved her out the front door
and onto the veranda. With any
luck, this blaze should delay
our pursuers for a moment, and
that might be enough. At the
very least, they would have to
take the other track around, the
one that came in higher up the
hill.

“We had got halfway across
the path which ran between the
sinkpools when I saw we were
going to need all the luck we
could get. All the islanders were
not behind us. Clearly visible in
the light from the burning
house behind us, there now
stood one of what I shall call
for want of a better word, the
‘elders.’ He was waiting for us
on a narrow place between two
of the boggy patches, and his
whole attitude was more than
plain. As we caught sight of
him, I pushed Mrs. S. behind
me.

“The creature, for it hardly
looked human any longer,
stood, crooked arms outstretch-
ed, his eyes glittering in the
light. His visible skin was
cracked and leathery, almost
lij^e dun-colored scales, and the
neck was obscenely long and
twisting. He was hairless, and
his ears had shmnk or rotted to
mere stubs, while the shining
dome of his back rose far up
behind his shoulders. It seemed
to me also that the feet and
fingers had nails of extraor-
dinary length and sharpness,
but I may have been mistaken
in this. He was quite nude, not
even the island wraparound,
and his whole body looked
damp in the firelight. As I
advanced slowly, the mouth
opened, and I saw that the
disease had caused him to lose
his teeth as well. There was an

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE

uncanny resemblance to the
monster I had dealt with up on
the higher reaches. No doubt
why they called the thing the
‘Father.’ No doubt.

“At ten paces, I fired. I shot
steadily, and I could see the
awful body shake from the
impact of the heavy bullets. But
though it stdggered, it still came
on. I shot carefully, for the
midbody, not trying out any-
thing fancy. The blank dark
eyes never changed expression,
though that toothless mouth
opened and closed.

“Behind me, I could hear
Mrs. Strudwick whimpering.
Couldn’t say I blamed her.

“At the fourth, and last,
shot, I dropped the gun, pulled
out my knife and waited.
Incredible though it may sound,
the man, or perhaps what had
once been a man, lurched on
and closed with me. The fetid
breath of that ghastly mouth
came into mine, as I drove the
knife home again and again,
meeting a queer resistance, as if
the skin were actually a sort of
armor or something similar.

“But it was dying. There was
no strength to its grapple, only
a kind of post-mortem will, as if
the big nerve centers were
actuating the body even after
the brain had died. I hurled it
aside, and it slid into the
nearest muck pool, much as its
giant forerunner had a few
minutes earlier.

“We could hear the cry c ;
the pack behind us somewhen .
even over the roaring of th ■
flames from the house. This w; •
now totally ablaze and sendir. .
sparks over the landscape.
Curiously, the only physic^
harm I got on the who! •
happening (unless you count i
possible something I’ll get 1 >
later! came from one of thes* .
which caught, unnoticed, in m /
shirt back and gave me a nasi
burn.

“Again we ran downhill, thi ;
time through the village, which.
I am happy to say, was
deserted. I was perfectly pre-
pared to swim out to the prau.
if necessary, towing my lade-
friend in my wake. The peril o r"
sharks never entered my head,
not after what we had just beet?
through, and I feel certain sh '
felt the same way.

“But it was not necessary.
The shots and the blaze had go
to old Ali, and though I am not
sure he actually would have
come ashore, he had fought
down his fears and at leai :•
bully-damned some of his cre'v.
of family thugs to bring th ;
small boat in to the landir.,:
place. There they were, arme 1
to the teeth, and looking ha :
petrified with fright. No mor.;
unsavory lot ever looked better
to me. After the good folk of
Pulau Tuntong, a squad t f
Waffen SS would have looked
reassuring.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“Well, that was that. We got
out to the ship, upanchored and
were gone, despite night, reefs
and all, in less than twenty
minutes. By the time dawn
came, Pulau Tuntong was not
even in sight. I was barely able
to note this fact, because I was
burning up with a curious fever.
Mrs. Strudwick was not only
feverish, but totally uncon-
scious in my cabin, shock no
doubt playing some part in the
matter.

“We made port in the Sulas
next day and my old Norwegian
trader behaved like a saint. He
took us in and nursed us both
tenderly, as weU as a woman
could, that hard-handed old
swab. I was well enough to
leave in a couple of days, but
Mrs. Strudwick was a very sick
woman. The old man promised
to see that she was shipped to
the Celebes in his own vessel,
and turned over to the Dutch
authorities, for transfer even-
tually to the States. Looking at
her, I was not sure she would
make it, since she was out of
her head half the time and
raving senselessly. I told the old
man that she and her husband
had provoked a native uprising,
which in a certain sense you’ll
agree was true. I also told him
to stop sending any boat
whatever to Pulau Tuntong,
since the people there were far
better utterly avoided. I would
file my own (discreetly edited)

report with the Dutch. He i
agreed, and told me that though
he had tried to find native
women to help nurse us, none
would do so, not when they ■
had heard whence we came. He
had done wonders, and I sent
him a fattish check when I got ,
back to Singapore, along with a
gold watch I thought he might
fancy. I know he got it because
he wrote. Mrs. Strudwick had
been shipped out also, and I
never heard of her again.

“Now, before you fellows
bombard me with questions, let
me try to make a few things
plain. First, I have never gone
back there or checked up on
the place, nor even bothered. I
had too many other things on
my mind until 1945. Never
since met anyone who knew the
area well enough to put a
sensible question to, either. If
anyone, either Jap or Allied
ever landed there, I never heard
of it. You are all welcome to
inquire if you care to.

“As to what I ran into, in all
its implications, I warned you,
in the beginning, it was full of
loose ends and unanswered
questions. Most of the major
things in life are, I find. But I
have one thought that I will
share, or rather some related
thoughts.

“In 1940, beyond knowing
vaguely that Madame Curie had
died of radium poisoning, while
doing experiments, the word

AND THE VOICE OF THE TURTLE

“radioactivity’ meant literally
nothing to me. Am I clear?
Hiroshima, of course, changed
all that. My current thought is
this: the whole island, and
especially around those seeps
and sulfur springs, could, I
think, have been rich in
uranium or some such article. I
say ‘could,’ since I know
nothing of these matters,
beyond what one reads in the
tabloids.

“So, consider a possibility,
nothing more. Consider an
inbred, isolated fragment of
humanity, constantly soaked in
this stuff. Would it eventually
not cause a mutation among
those who survived and man-
aged to breed? I don’t know,
nor I expect will anyone else, at
least for a long time. Only a
thought, mind you, and not
clear in my own mind. But the
turtles, now, according to
Strudwick, who may have been
loathsome morally, but was at
least a good scientist— the
turtles were an extraordinarily
odd mix, all sorts or strange
breeds on one tiny island, to
use his words. Another matter
is my strange fever, not like
Ijialaria at all. And I lost a lot of
hair, though it later grew back.

8 .?

Radioactivity? It gives one to
think.

“Thus we come to the village
‘elders.’ They looked awful, but
may, just may have been on the
road to something new, a new
breed, if a most unpleasing one
to our eyes. Remember, I saw
no children. Could the race
have been dying out? Again, I
have no idea, no real answers.

“And finally, I suppose you
want my ideas on the creature
they called the ‘Father.’ My
first thought, and one I clung to
for a longish while, was simply
that it was an enormous,
deformed and very aged turtle,
changed perhaps by the radioac-
tive bath in which it had soaked
and indeed may have done so
for ages, for all that I know.”

He paused, then rose and
stood behind his chair, staring
blankly at the mantelpiece.

Then he turned to leave, but
his voice floated back as he
went. “There are, naturally,
many other possibilities. The
eyes, you know, were utterly
human in their expression.
Many other possibilities.” We
heard his feet on the stairs.

For once in his life, Mason
Williams had nothing to say,
not a word. It was an occasion.

In which Mr. Fast invents one Julius
i iepplemeyer, who invents a device that
jends space, which. . . Read on; it's
^11 good fun. Howard Fast's most
!3CentbookisTHE hessian (Morrow).

The Hoop

by HOWARD FAST

iM ONE OF THOSE CHARM-
;ng expressions of candor—
vhich were to become so well
'.nown to the television aud-
snce— Dr. Hepplemeyer as-
c ribed his scientific success less
lo his brilliance than to his
rame. “Can you imagine being
■'ulius Hepplemeyer, and facing
i hat for the rest of your life? If
one is Julius Hepplemeyer, one
i; forced either to transcend it
or perish.”

Two Nobel Prizes before he
finally perfected the hoop
; ttested to the transendence. In
acknowledging them, he made
liberal use of what the press
came to call “Hepplemeyer
Jewels,” as for instance: “Wis-
dom obligates a man to perform
; >olishly.” “Education imposes
a search for ignorance.” “The
• olution always calls for the
; roblem.”

This last was particularly
: pplicable to the hoop. It was

never Dr. Hepplemeyer’s inten-
tion to bend space, and he
pinned down the notion as
presumptuous. “Only God
bends space,” he emphasized.
“Man can only watch, observe,
seek— and sometimes find.”

“Do you believe in God?” a
reporter asked eagerly.

“In an ironic God, yes. The
proof is laughter. A smUe is the
only expression of eternity.”

He talked that way without
any particular effort, and acute
observers realized it was be-
cause he thought that way. His
wife was an acute observer, and
one morning at breakfast, as he
cracked a three-minute egg and
peered into it, he specified that
everything returns to itself.

It rather chilled his wife,
without her knowing why.
“Even God?” she asked.

“Most certainly God,” he
replied, and for the next two
years he worked on the hoop.

THE HOOP

The Dean at Columbia cooper-
ated with him, cutting down his
lectures to one a week. Every
facility was placed at his
disposal; after all, it was the
Hepplemeyer age; Einstein was
dead, and Hepplemeyer had to
remind his admirers that while
“Hepplemeyer’s Law of Re-
turn” had perhaps opened new
doors in physics, it nevertheless
rested solidly upon the basis of
Einstein’s work. Yet his modest
reminders fell upon deaf ears,
and whereas The New York
Times weekly magazine supple-
ment once ran no less than six
features a year on some aspect
of Einstein’s work, they now
reduced the number to three
and devoted no less than seven
features in as many months to
Hepplemeyer, Isaac Asimov,
that persistent unraveler of the
mysteries of science, devoted
six thousand words toward a
popular explanation of the
“Law of Return,” and if few
understood, it was nevertheless
table conversation for many
thousands of intrigued readers.
Nor were any egos bruised, for
Asimov himself estimated that
only a dozen people in the
entire world actually under-
stood the Hepplemeyer equa-
tions.

Hepplemeyer, meanwhile,
was so absorbed in his work
that he ceased even to read
about himself. The lights in his
laboratory burned all night long

while, with the assistance of his
eager young assistants— more
disciples than paid workers— he
translated his mathematics into
a hoop of shining aluminum,
the pipe six inches in diameter,
the hoop itself a circle of the
six-inch aluminum pipe twelve
feet in diameter; and within the
six-inch pipe, an intricate coil
of gossamer wires. As he told
his students, he was in effect
building a net in which he
would perhaps trap a tiny curl
of the endless convolutions of
space.

Of course, he immediately
denied his images. “We are so
limited,” He explained. “The
universe is filled with endless
wonders for which we have no
name, no words, no concepts.
The hoop? That is different.
The hoop is an object, as
anyone can see.”

There came a fine, sunny,
shining spring day in April,
when the hoop was finally
finished and when the professor
and his student assistants bore
it triumphantly put onto the
campus. It took eight stalwart
young men to carry the great
hoop, and eight more to carry
the iron frame in which it
would rest. The press was there,
television, about four thousand
students, about four hundred
cops and various other repre-
sentatives of the normal and
abnormal life of New York
City. The Columbia University

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

quadrangle was indeed so
crowded that the police had to
clear a path for the hoop.
Hepplemeyer begged them to
keep the crowd back, since it
might be dangerous; and as he
hated violence almost as much
as he detested stupidity, he
begged the students not to get
into the kind of rumble that
was almost inevitable when
cops and students were too
many and in too great
proximity.

One of the policemen lent
the professor a bullhorn, and he
declared, in booming electronic
tones, “This is only a test. It is
almost impossible that it should
work. I have calculated that out
of any given hundred acres,
possibly a hundred square feet
will be receptive. So you see
how great the odds are against
us. You must give us room. You
must let us move about.”

The students were not only
loose and good-natured and full
of grass and other congenial
substances on that shining April
day; they also adored Hepple-
meyer as a sort of Bob Dylan of
the scientific world. So they
cooperated, and finally the
professor found a spot that
suited him, and the hoop was
set up.

Hepplemeyer observed it
thoughtfully for a moment, and
then began going through his
pockets for an object. He found
a large gray eraser and tossed it

into the hoop. It passed
through and fell to the ground
on the other side.

The student body— as well as
the working press— had no idea
of what was supposed to
happen to the eraser, but the
crestfallen expression on Hep-
plemeyer’s face demonstrated
that whatever was supposed to
happen had not happened. The
students broke into sympa-
thetic and supportive applause,
and Hepplemeyer, warming to
their love, took them into his
confidence and said into the
bullhorn:

“We try again, no?”

The sixteen stalwart young
men lifted hoop and frame and
carried their burden to another
part of the quadrangle. The
crowd followed with the
respect and appreciation of a
championship golf audience,
and the television camera
ground away. Once again, the
professor repeated his experi-
ment, this time tossing an old
pipe through the hoop. As with
the eraser, the pipe fell to earth
on the other side of the hoop.

“So we try again,” he
confided into the bullhorn.
“Maybe we never find it. Maybe
the whole thing is for nothing.
Once science was a predictable
mechanical handmaiden. To-
day, two and two add up
maybe to infinity. Anyway, it
was a comfortable old pipe and
I am glad I have it back.”

THE HOOP

By now, it had become
evident to most of the
onlookers that whatever was
cast into the hoop was not
intended to emerge from the
other side, and were it anyone
but Hepplemeyer doing the
casting, the crowd, cameras,
newsmen, cops and all, would
have dispersed in disgust. But it
was Hepplemyer, and instead of
dispersing in disgust, their
enchantment with the project
simply increased.

Another place in the quad-
rangle was chosen, and the
hoop was set up. This time. Dr.
Hepplemeyer selected from his
pocket a fountain pen, given to
him by the Academy, and
inscribed “nil desperandum.”
Perhaps with full consciousness
of the inscription, he flung the
pen through the hoop, and
instead of falling to the ground
on the other side of the hoop, it
disappeared. Just like that— just
so— it disappeared.

A great silence for a long
moment or two, and then one
of Hepplemeyer’s assistants,
young Peabody, took the
screwdriver, which he had used
to help set up the hoop, and
flung it through the hoop. It
disappeared. Young Brumberg
followed suit with his hammer.
It disappeared. Wrench. Clamp.
Pliers. All disappeared.

The demonstration was suffi-
cient. A great shout of applause
and triumph went up from

M orningside Heights and
echoed and reechoed from
Broadway to St. ' Nicholas
Avenue, and then the contagion
set in. A coed began it by
sailing her copy of the poetry
of e.e. Cummings through the
hoop. It disappeared. Then
enough books to stock a small
library. They all disappeared.
Then shoes— a veritable rain of
shoes— then belts, sweaters,
shirts, anything and everything
that was at hand was flung
through the hoop and anything
and everything that was flung
through the hoop disappeared.

Vainly did Professor Hepple-
meyer attempt to halt the
stream of objects through the
hoop; even his bullhorn could
not be heard above the shouts
and laughter of the delighted
students, who now had wit-
nessed the collapse of basic
reality along with all the other
verities and virtues that previ-
ous generations had observed.
Vainly did Professor Hepple-
meyer warn them.

And then, out of the crowd
and into history, raced Ernest
Silverman, high jumper and
honor student and citizen of
Philadelphia.

In all the exuberance and
thoughtlessness of youth, he
flung himself through the
hoop— and disappeared. And in
a twinkling, the laughter, the
shouts, the exuberance turned
into a cold, dismal silence. Like

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

the children who followed the
pied piper, Ernest Silverman
was gone with all the fancies,
and hopes; the sun clouded
over, and a chill wind blew.

A few bold kids wanted to
follow, but Hepplemeyer barred
their way and warned them
back, pleading through the
bullhorn for them to realize the
danger involved. As for Silver-
man, Hepplemeyer could only
repeat what he told the police,
after the hoop had been roped
off, placed under a twenty-four
hour guard, and forbidden to
everyone.

“But where is he?” summed
up the questions.

“I don’t know,” summed up
the answer.

The questions and answers
were the same at Centre Street
as at the local precinct, but
such was the position of
Hepplemeyer that the commis-
sioner himself took him into his
private office— it was midnight
by then— and asked him gently,
pleadingly:

“What is on the other side of
that hoop, professor?”

“I don’t know.”

“So you say— so you have
said. You made the hoop.”

“We build dynamos. Do we
know how they work? We make
electricity. Do we know what it
is?”

“Do we?”

“No, we do not.”

“Which is all well and good.

Silverman’s parents are here
from Philadelphia, and they’ve
brought a Philadelphia lawyer
with them and maybe sixteen
Philadelphia reporters, and they
all want to know where the kid
is to the tune of God knows
how many lawsuits and injunc-
tions.”

Hepplemeyer sighed. “I also
want to know where he is.”

“What do we do?” the
commissioner begged him.

“1 don’t know. Do you think
you ought to arrest me?”

“I would need a charge.
Negligence, manslaughter, kid-
naping— none of them appear to
fit the situation exactly, do
they?”

“I am not a policeman,”
Hepplemeyer said. “In any case,
it would interfere with my
work.”

“Is the boy alive?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you answer one ques-
tion?” the commissioner asked
with some exasperation. “What
is on the other side of the
hoop?”

“In a manner of speaking,
the campus. In another manner
of speaking, something else.”

“What?”

“Another part of space. A
different time sequence. Etern-
ity. Even Brooklyn. I just don’t
know.”

“Not Brooklyn. Not even
Staten Island. The kid would
have turned up by now. It’s

THE HOOP

damn peculiar that you put the
thing together and now you
can’t tell me what it’s supposed
to do.”

“I know what it’s supposed
to do,” Hepplemeyer said
apologetically. “It’s supposed
to bend space.”

“Does it?”

I “Probably.”

“I have four policemen who
are willing to go through the
hoop— volunteers. Would you
agree?”

I “No.”

I “Why?”

I “Space is a peculiar thing, or
perhaps not a thing at all,” the
professor replied, with the
difficulty a scientist always has
when he attempts to verbalize
an abstraction to the satisfac-
tion of a layman. “Space is not
something we understand.”

I “We’ve been to the moon.”

I “Exactly. It’s an uncomfort-
able place. Suppose the boy is
on the moon.”

I “Is he?”

“I don’t know. He could be
on Mars. Or he could be a
million miles short of Mars. I
would not want to subject four
policemen to that.”

So with the simple ingeni-
ousness or ingenuousness of a
people who love animals,' they
put a dog through the hoop. He
disappeared.

For the next few weeks, a
police guard was placed around

' the hoop day and night, while

the professor , spent most of his
days in court and most of his
evenings with his lawyers. He
found time, however, the meet
with the mayor three times.

New York City was blessed
with a mayor whose problems
were almost matched by his
personality, his wit and imagin-
ation. If Professor Hepplemeyer
dreamed of space and infinity,
the mayor dreamed as consist-
ently of ecology, garbage and
finances. Thus it is not to be
wondered at that the mayor
came up with a notion that
promised to change history.

“We try it with a. single
garbage truck,” the mayor
begged Hepplemeyer. “If it
works, it might mean a third
Nobel Prize.”

“I don’t want another Nobel
Prize. I didn’t deserve the first
two. My guilts are sufficient.”

“I can persuade the Board of
Estimate to pay the damages on
the Silverman case.”

“Poor boy— will the Board of
Estimate take care of my guilt.”

“It will make you a
millionaire.”

“The last thing I want to
be.”

“It’s your obligation to
mankind,” the mayor insisted.

“The college will never
permit it.”

“I can fix it with Columbia,”
the mayor said.

“It’s obscene,” Hepplemeyer
said desperately. And then' he

FANTASY AND SCIENGE FICTION

surrendered, and the following
day a loaded garbage truck
backed up across the campus to
the hoop.

It does not take much to
make a happening in Fun City,
and since it is also asserted that
there is nothing so potent as an
idea whose time has come, the
mayor’s brilliant notion spread
through the city like wildfire.
Not only were the network
cameras there, not only the
local and national press, not
only ten or twelve thousand
students and other curious city
folk, but the kind of interna-
tional press that usually turns
out only for major international
events. Which this was, for
certainly the talent for produc-
ing garbage was generic to
mankind and perhaps the major
function of mankind, as G.B.S.
had once indelicately remarked;
and certainly the disposal of the
said garbage was a problem all
of mankind shared.

So the eyes stared, the
cameras whirred, and fifty
million eyes were glued to
television screens as the big
sanitation truck backed into
position. As a historical note,
we remember that Ralph
Vecchio was the driver and
Tony Andamano his assistant.
Andamano stood in the iris of
history, so as to speak, directing
Vecchio calmly and efficiently;

“Come back, Ralphy— a little
more— just cut it a little. Nice

and easy. Come back. Come
back. You got another twelve,
fourteen inches. Slow— great.
Hold it there. All right.”

Professor Hepplemeyer
stood by the mayor, muttering
under his breath as the dumping
mechanism reared the great
body back on its haunches— and
then the garbage began to pour
through the hoop. Not a sound
was heard from all the crowd as
the first flood of garbage
poured through the hoop; but
then, when the garbage disap-
peared into infinity or Mars or
space or another galaxy, such a
shout of triumph went up as
was eminently jwoper to the
salvation of the human race.

Heroes were made that day.
The mayor was a hero.
Professor Hepplemeyer was a
hero. Tony Andamano was a
hero. Ralph Vecchio was a
hero. But above all. Professor
Hepplemeyer, whose fame was
matched only by his gloom.
How to list his honors? By a
special act of Congress, the
Congressional Medal of Ecology
was created; Hepplemeyer got
it. He was made a Kentucky
Colonel and an honorary citizen
of Japan and Great Britain,
Japan immediately offered him
ten million dollars for a single
hoop, an overall contract of a
billion dollars for one hundred
hoops. Honorary degrees came
from sixteen universities, and
the City of Chicago upped

THE HOOP

Japan’s offer to twelve million
dollars for a single hoop. With
this, the bidding between and
among the cities of the United
States became frantic, with
Detroit topping the list with an
offer of one hundred million
dollars for the first— or second,
to put it properly— hoop con-
structed by Hepplemeyer. Ger-
many asked for the principle,
not the hoop, only the principle
behind it, and for this they
were ready to pay half a billion
marks, gently reminding the
professor that the mark was
generally preferred to the
dollar.

At breakfast, Hepplemeyer’s
wife reminded him that the
dentist’s bill was due, twelve
hundred dollars for his new
brace.

“We only have seven hun-
dred and twenty-two dollars in
the bank,” the professor sighed.
“Perhaps we should take a
loan.”

“Oh, no. No, indeed. You
are putting me on,” his wife
said.

The professor, a quarter of a
century behind in his slang,
observed her vvdth some bewil-
derment.

“The German offer,” she
said. “You don’t even have to
build the wretched thing. All
they want is the principle.”

“I have often wondered
whether it is not ignorance after
all, but rather devotion to the

principle of duality that i .
responsible for mankind’s aggra
vation.”

“What?”

“Duality.”

“Do you like the eggs? I go:
them at the Pioneer super
market. They’s seven cent.;
cheaper, grade A.”

“Very good,” the professo
said.

^‘What on earth is duality?’

“Everything— the way we
think. Good and bad. Right and
wrong. Black and white. M}
shirt, your shirt. My country
your country. It’s the way w-
think. We never think of one, o
a whole, of a unit. The univers.
is outside of us. It never occur
to us that we are it.”

“I don’t truly follow you,'
he wife replied patiently, “bu
does that mean you’re nc
going to build any mori
hoops?”

“Fm not sure.”

“Which means you are sure.’

“No, it only means that I an
not sure. I have to think abou
it.”

His wife rose from the table
and the professor asked he
where she was going.

“I’m not sure. I’m eithe
going to have a migrain
headache or jump out of th
window. I have to think abou
it too.”

The only one who wa
absolutely and unswervingh
sure of himself was the mayoi

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

of New York City. For eight
years he had been dealing with
unsolvable problems, and there
was no group in the city,
whether a trade union, neigh-
borhood organization, consum-
er’s group or Boy Scout troop,
which had not selected him as
the whipping boy. At long last
his seared back showed some
signs of healing, and his
dedication to the hoop was
such that he would have armed
his citizenry and thrown up
barricades if anyone attempted
lo touch it or interfere with it.
Police stood shoulder to shoul-
der around it, and morning,
evening, noon and night, an
endless procession of garbage
trucks backed across the
Columbia College quadrangle to
the hoop, emptying their
garbage.

So much for the moment.
But the lights burned late in the
offices of the city planners as
they sat over their drawing
boards and blueprints, working
out a system for all sewers to
empty into the hoop. It was a
high moment indeed, not
blighted one iota by the pleas
of the mayors of Yonkers,
Jersey City and Hackensack to
get into the act.

The mayor stood firm. Hour
by hour, there was no one hour
in the twenty-four hours of any
given day, not one minute in
the sixty minutes that comprise
an hour, when a garbage truck

was not backing up to the hoop
and discharging its cargo. Tony
Andamano, appointed to the
position of inspector, had a
permanent position at the
hoop, with a staff of assistants
to see that the garbage was
properly discharged.

Of course, it was only to be
expected that there would be a
mounting pressure, first local,
then nationwide, then world-
wide for the hoop to be taken
apart and minutely reproduced.
The Japanese, so long expert at
reproducing and improving any-
thing the West put together,
were the first to introduce that
motion into the United Na-
tions, and they were followed
by half a hundred other
nations. But the mayor had
already had his quiet talk with
Hepplemeyer, more or less as
follows, if Hepplemeyer’s mem-
oirs are to be trusted ;

“I want it straight and
simple, professor. If they take it
apart, can they reproduce it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because they don’t know
the mathematics. It’s not an
automobile transmission, not at
all.”

“Naturally. Is there any
chance that they can reproduce
it?”

“Who knows?”

“I presume that you do,”
the mayor said. “Could you
reproduce it?”

THE HOOP

“I made it.”

“Will you?”

“Perhaps." I have been
thinking about it.”

“It’s a month now.”

“1 think slowly,” the profes-
sor said.

Whereupon the mayor issued
his historic statement, namely;
“Any attempt to interfere with
the operation of the hoop will
be considered as a basic attack
upon the Constitutional proper-
ty rights of the City of New
York, and will be resisted with
every device, legal and other-
wise, that the city has at its
disposal.”

The commentators immedi-
ately launched into a discussion
of what the mayor meant by
otherwise, while the governor,
never beloved of the mayor,
filed suit in the Federal court in
behalf of all the municipalities
of New York State. NASA,
meanwhile, scoffing at . the
suggestion that there were
scientific secrets unsolvable,
turned their vast battery of
electronic brains onto the
problem; and the Russians
predicted that they would have
their own hoop within sixty
days. Only the Chinese ap-
peared to chuckle with amuse-
ment, since most of their
garbage was recycled into an
organic mulch and they were
too poor and too thrifty to be
overconcerned with the prob-
lem. But the Chinese were too

far away for their chuckles to
mollify Americans, and the tide
of anger rose day by day. From
hero and eccentric. Professor
Hepplemeyer was fast becoming
scientific public enemy number
one. He was now publicly
accused of being a communist,
a madman, an egomaniac and a
murderer to boot.

“It is uncomfortable,” Hep-
plemeyer admitted to his wife;
for since he eschewed press
conferences and television ap-
pearances, his admissions and
anxieties usually took place
over the breakfast table.

“I have known for thirty
years how stubborn you are.
Now, at least, the whole world
knows.”

“No, it’s not stubbornness.
As I said, it’s a matter of
duality.”

“Everyone, else thinks it’s a
matter of garbage. You stilt
haven’t paid the dentist bill. It’s
four months due now. Dr.
Steinman is suing us.”

“Come now, dentists don’t
sue.”

“He says that potentially
you are the richest man on
earth, and that justifies his
suit.”

The professor was scribbling
on his napkin. “Remarkable,”
he said. “Do you know how
much garbage they’ve poured
into the hoop already?”

“Do you know that you
could have a royalty on ever>

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

pound? A lawyer called today
who wants to represent—”

“Over a million tons,” he
interrupted. “Imagine, over a
million tons of garbage. What
wonderful creatures we are! For
centuries philosophers sought a
teleological explanation for
mankind, and it never occurred
to any of them that we are
garbage makers, no more, no
less.”

“He mentioned a royalty of
five cents a ton.”

“Over a million tons,” the
professor said thoughtfully. “I
wonder where it is?”

It was three weeks later to
the day, at five twenty in the
morning, that the first crack
appeared in the asphalt paving
of Wall Street. It was the sort of
ragged fissure that is not
uncommon in the miles of city
street, nothing to arouse notice,
much less alarm, except that in
this case it was not static.
Between five twenty and eight
twenty, it doubled in length,
and the asphalt lips of the street
had parted a full inch. The
escaping smell caught the notice
of the crowds hurrying to work,
and word went around that
there was a gas leak.

By ten o’clock the Con
Edison trucks were on the
scene, checking - the major
valves, and by eleven the police
had roped off the street, and
the lips of the crack, which now
extended across the entire

street, were at least eight inches
apart. There was talk of an
earthquake, yet when contact-*-
ed, Fordham University report-
ed that the seismograph showed
nothing unusual, oh, perhaps
some very slight tremors but
nothing unusual enough to be
called an earthquake.

When the streets filled for
the noon lunch break, a very
distinct and rancid smell filled
the narrow cavern, so heavy and
unpleasant that half a dozen
more sensitive stomachs up-
chucked; and by one o’clock,
the lips of the crack were over a
foot wide, water mains had
broken, and Con Edison had to
cut its high voltage lines. At
two ten, the first garbage
appeared.

The first garbage just oozed
out of the cut, but within the
hour the break was three feet
wide, . buildings had begun to
slip and show cracks and
shower bricks, and the garbage
was pouring into Wall Street
like lava from an erupting
volcano. The offices closed, the
office workers fled, brokers,
bankers and secretaries alike
wading through the garbage. In
spite of all the efforts of the
police and the fire department,
in spite of the heroic rescues of
the police helicopter teams,
eight people were lost in the
garbage or trapped in one of the
buildings; and by five o’clock
the garbage was ten stories high

THE HOOP

in Wall Street, and pouring into
Broadway at one end and onto
the East River Drive at the
other. Now, like a primal
volcano, the dams burst, and
for an hour the garbage fell on
lower Manhattan as once the
ashes had fallen on Pompeii.

And then it was over, very
quickly, very suddenly— all of it
so sudden that the mayor never
left his office at all, but sat
staring through the window at
the carpet of garbage that
surrounded city hall.

He picked up the telephone
and found that it still worked.
He dialed his personal line, and
across the mountain of garbage
the electrical impulses flickered,
and the telephone rang in
Professor Hepplemeyer’s study.

“Hepplemeyer here,” the
professor said.

“The mayor.”

“Oh, - yes. I heard. I’m
terribly sorry. Has it stopped?”

“It appears to have stop-

ped now,” the mayor said.

“Ernest Silverman?”

“No sign of him,” the mayo,
said.

“Well, it was thoughtful o'
you to call me.”

“There’s all that garbage.”

“About two million tons?’
the professor asked gently.

“Give or take some. Do you
suppose you could move the
hoop—”

The professor replaced the
phone and went into the
kitchen, where his wife was
putting together a beef stew.
She asked who had called.

“The mayor.”

“Oh?”

“He wants the hoop
moved.”

“I think it’s thoughtful o
him to consult you.”

“Oh, yes— yes, indeed,” Pro-
fessor Hepplemeyer said. “But
I’ll have to think about it.”

“I suppose you will,” she
said with resignation.

Coining next month

Two unusual items are featured in November: 1) A never before published
story by Anthony Boucher, and 2) A new story under the famous
Pohl-Kombluth byline, written by Frederik Pohl and based on notes made
while Cyril Kombluth was alive. John Sladek will be on hand with another
parody (of Ray Bradbury), and Phyllis Eisenstein with a good, strong novelet
concerning the further adventures of her teleporting minstrel, Alaric (“Bom
to Exile,” August 1971). A good issue, and a good time to subscribe;
remember, every issue of F&SF now carries 16 additional pages, at no
increase in price.

Mr. Leiber is back, speculating eerily
oh country gardens and cats. (Note
to Leiber fans: we still have some
copies remaining of the special Fritz
Leiber issue, signed by Mr. Leiber,
available for $2.00 each.)

The Lotus Eaters

by FRFTZ

I ALWAYS STRONGLY Dis-
approved of castrating male
cats or spaying female ones— I,
believed that such operations
diminished strength, invaded
individuality, and were an insult
to any being’s right to
procreate— until I started to
take care of a house and three
neutered cats in Summerland in
Southern California. It was a
lovely house on the dry, steep
hillside.

Soon I began to have an
understanding of my three
eunuchs.

My wife spent most of her
time in bed. She was ill and had
an addiction for alcohol and
books and soft fireside lights.

I fed the three cats: Braggi, a
big, soft, sloppy male, red of
lair and eye; Fanusi, a small
leige female with the habits of
i Rapper; and the Grand
Duchess, white with black

LEIBER

spots, snaky and strong, who
looked like some creature who
should be riding point (though
on what steed I don’t know)
before a troop of western
cavalry.

Braggi was a lover. He would
come over and just suddenly
flop on my shoes— a great big
gesture of affection.

Fanusi was a neurotic,
despite her basic flapper be-
havior. Even while wooing you,
she was nervous and apt to run
off.

The Grand Duchess never
lost her cool, though she was
the smallest— yet hardiest— of
the three.

The thing that most startled
me about them, after about a
week, was that they were all
killers. They would bring in
dead mice, rats even, birds and
gophers, not eating them, but
tossing them at my feet. I

THE LOTUS EATERS

expected they were devoted
exponents of blood sports. In
fact, I noticed that the Grand
Duchess had a regular hunting
trail she took each day, waiting
for a few minutes at each kill
spot.

I wondered how they got
enough to eat, since they
apparently didn’t eat their
kills— merely displayed them to
me, while their mistress, who
owned the house, when strictly
giving them into my trust,
assured me that they each took
only two teaspoons of canned
cat food a day. A statement I
immediately wondered about.

Soon I found the solution,
through my wife, who under-
stands people better than I do.
Each of the three had a regular
route to four sympathetic
houses in the near neighbor-
hood, where they got good
victuals off the human tables.

Then I became more aware
of the quite large garden on the
downhill side of the house my
wife and I were taking care
of— along with the three de-
sexed hunting cats. (Heck— de-
sexed!) They even indulged
often in sex play with each
other— neutering isn’t nearly
such a disaster to sexual activity
as many people think. Those
three felines enjoyed each
other.

I got still more interested in
the garden downside of the
house, from which the cries of

the cats would sometimes come
in , the evenings like the soft
coughs of lions.

The garden was a jungle. No,
worse than a jungle. More like
chaos.

So I started in on the worst
stuff first. This happened to be
a weed that had black spikes
looking like early bambo
phonograph needles, but wit
tiny black burrs on the ends o^
them. They stuck on my socks
and trousers very determinedly.
But I kept getting rid of them,
through the help of my wife.

Then I came to small,
brown, circular burrs. They
weren’t so troublesome to deal
with. The back garden began to
look like something I could
conquer.

I started to cut out all sorts
of dead wood. There were
bushes that bore red berries in
the center of the garden. When
I’d sawed all of their gray, dry,
dead underwood away, I
discovered a simple cement
fountain underneath. I imagine
the mistress and master of the
house we were tending— along
with their three cats— could
hardly have known about the
fountain, since for five years
they had merely ground-hosed
the garden from above a half
hour every afternoon, their
only attention to that area. J
never did find out how that
fountain worked.

My wife had a mild heart

attack about that time, but we
found her a doctor who did her
good, and both she and I kept
up our lonely ways of life, she
in her bedroom, I at my
typewriter in my study, and
always for a strenuous, sweaty
hour or three in the back
garden.

I cleaned the lower surface
out— now that the nastiest
weeds were taken care of— first
with a machete, then with a
hand mower.

Then I began to get at the
trees and the high border
vegetation. This meant much
more deadwood. Too much for
our garbage cans. I would load
up my car with big corrugated
cardboard boxes filled with my
dead gray vegetable refuse and
take it to the city dump, a huge
dark valley behind the sea hills,
but circled always with scream-
ing sea birds. It gave me a
strange feeling to do this, as if I
were burying my wife— or one
or all of the three cats she and I
were tending.

At about this time Braggi
started visiting me in the
downhill garden while I work-
ed. He would watch me closely,
and when I sat down on the
crude fountain edge to rest and
wipe my face, he would topple
against my ankles in affection. I
would stroke him.

My wife read her books and
drank her highballs in our
bedroom. When she looked

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

down at me from the wide
window, it was companionably,
affectionately, and concerned-
ly. I would wave at her.

I was fascinated by the
things my afternoon cuttings
were uncovering. Working at
the dead gray underbranches of
two tall avocado trees, I
discovered a complete hem-
ispherical “pleasure dome,” as
in the poem by Coleridge, a
dome walled overhead with
huge green leaves and large
green dropping fruit. My wife
and I had a tremendous salad
that night.

During later days, we gave
away a number of these lovely,
grainy-skinned fruits to briefly
visiting friends.

At about this time the two
“altered” female cats— the neu-
rotic Fanusi and the stately
Grand Duchess— began to look
in on me and Braggi from a
distance occasionally as I
worked in the garden.

Then I attacked the fifteen-
foot hedge of the whole
garden— all green and vigorous
with clumps of small yellow
strange berries. I was amazed at
my discoveries as I cut down
this fierce stuff— three small
evergreens growing sidewise in
their attempt to get out of their
huge green prison and reach the
sun; two lovely branches of
enormous, softly yellow roses
iust in bloom; and a small
orange tree with tiny fruit.

THE LOTUS EATERS

That night my wife and I
had a beautiful centerpiece at
our dining table and lovely
screwdrivers. I had a great
feeling of triumph at having
conquered the garden.

But later that night it was
horrible. I awakened from a
light sleep, and slipping out of
the king-size bed very quietly,
so as not to awaken my wife, I
put on a dressing gown and
stole down to the back garden.

Everything I had cut down
was growing at a supernatural
velocity, though I don’t know
what god or goddess had the
power at that point.

For a moment I stood
astounded— long enough to note
Braggi, Fanusi, and the Grand
Duchess watching me from the
hillside, silhouetted by the
moonlight, ‘

It seemed clear that all the
vegetation— grasses, weeds,
shrubs, vines, and trees— was
determined to encircle and
strangle to death me and iny
wife and the house.

I realized I had not a green
thumb, to give life, but a gray
thumb, to give death. Though
this left me with the paradox
that in trying to bring the
garden to life— to free it— I had
infuriated it against me.

I rushed uphill and upstairs.
My wife roused instantly. I
grabbed a bottle for her.
Without packing, we raced out
to our car past threatening

growing hedges and weeds
which stung our legs. We
jumped into the auto and
started it, opening the back door
and yelling, “Fanusi! Grand
Duchess! Braggi! Pile in! ”

To my relief and utter
amazement they did— Fanusi
almost in fits, Braggi loving as
usual (in fact, snuggling up to
my wife), the Duchess staring
back over her white, black-
spotted shoulder in a proud
way at the vegetation which
appeared to be pursuing us.

Days later I sent some
letters.

Three months afterward I
heard from the couple who
owned the house.

The chief points were that
they were grateful to us for
taking on their three cats—
which had been a bother to
them for a long time— but no
offer to redeem their pets. And
why had 1 left the back garden
in such a rank state after
promising to clear it? And yet
taken away all the ripe
avocados?

In view of which my plea for
a little extra care-taking fee was
ridiculous.

My wife and I looked at each
other, while Braggi, Fanusi, and
the Grand Duchess looked up at
us from their appointed places
before the flickering, red,
streaming, mysterious fireplace,
and smiled their Cheshire
smiles. ■

BAIRD SEARLES

FILMS

Some months ago, while
taking part in a panel on
criticism at the Lunacon, I said
in passing that I felt it part of a
critic’s duty to make as clear as
possible what his criteria are.
It’s only fair to the reader to
make it known to him what the
critic feels to be his own
limitations; otherwise he comes
over like the voice of the
Almighty declaring from on
high, a school of criticism I’m
not fond of. Since this piece is
being written in the depths of
the summer doldrums, when
there is very little around to be
reviewed except yet another
Planet of the Apes film (I can’t;
I’m sorry, I just can’t. . .and
there’s a limitation right there)
and another bunch of films
about possession, it occurs to
me that a short essay might be
in order on what I look for in
the fantastic film, combined
with an extended Late, Late
Show Department of examples
from fUms that probably will
keep appearing on television.

I find that a major problem
with the fantasy film (a
convenient handle that includes
sf and horror) is, as with the
literary, sorting out the true
narrative imaginative films from
the satirical, the surrealist, the
allegorical, and other forms of
non-realism. About the only
conclusion I’ve come to for
both media is; is the reader/

FILMS

101

viewer expected to believe, if
only momentarily, what he is
reading/viewing?* One of the
necessary talents for a writer in
the field is to talk the reader
out of his disbelief in the
fantastic things he is being told.
In film, the problem is only
slightly different, mainly be
cause a film is an amalgam of
talents. But is the physical eye
(as opposed to the mind’s eye
of the reader) being convinced
that the fantastic thing he is
being shown is real? It is the
moments when that happens
that I look for, hope for, and
sometimes find.

Now judging from that, it
would seem that all a filmmaker
needs is a super special effects
man, which, of course, is
nonsense. But that has been the
saving of more than one film
that otherwise would have been
balderdash, and why sometimes
I give high marks to films of no
intellectual content whatsoever.
A perfect example is a film
called Jason and the Argonauts
(1963), which is a fairly simple-
minded account of the journey
of the Argo (though in all
fairness I must say that it never
lapses into blatant foolishness).
Its special effects, however, are
superlative, from the big set

*For instance, not for a moment do
you believe in the anthropomorphic
animals of Orwell’s Animal Farm
(book or film) though it is certainly
successful satire.

pieces (the giant of brass, the
harpies, Poseidon rising from
the waves, an eye-boggling
battle with the skeletal warriors
grown from the dragon’s teeth)
to smaller touches (Hermes, in
disguise, talks with Jason, and
suddenly revealing his true
nature, he grows to infinite size
and disappears; the gods, on
Olympus, hover over a gaming
table where Zeus and Hera are
playing with the real Argo on
its voyage). All of these
convince my eye, and I happily
sit back feeling that I have seen
wonders. On the other hand,
due to the subtle interplay of
eye and brain, a really idiotic
script can undermine the very
best special effects. This so
often is the problem with the
Japanese monster rallies. They
are always good for amusement,
but despite the often excellent
effects, one doesn’t believe
them even visually.

Good special effects cost
money, always a determining
factor with film. Contrariwise
to the above, too often one sees
a film with a usable idea, a
literate script and no budget for
the effects called for, where-
upon the whole project has
fallen flat on its face. But this is
where that odd quality called
talent comes in. A really
talented crew can evoke wonder
with limited means and again,
with the help of a good script,
can sweep the eye and mind

102

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

into belief. Stairway to Heaven
(1946) was hardly a big budget
movie by Hollywood standards
of the time, but vdth astute use
of visual manipulation, it stands
as a stunning example of the
romantic fantastic. Essentially a
hymn to Anglo-American rela-
tions, it concerns an English
pilot shot down over the
Channel. Fated to die, he is
missed by the Heavenly messen-
ger sent to collect him (a
French aristocrat guillotined in
the Revolution, who blames it
on the English fog). The action
shuttles back and forth between
Heaven and Earth; the pilot
refuses to go because he has
fallen in love, in the time on
Earth mistakenly allotted him,
with an American girl. It
resolves in a huge trial in
Heaven, essentially encompass-
ing the historical relationship
between England and the U.S.,
the prosecuting attorney being
a Y ankee killed in the American
Revolution (played by Raymond
Massey, a brilliant choice for
the Lincoln association), the
defense the pilot’s doctor, just
killed in a motor accident. The
major effect is an enormously
wide marble escalator, bordered
by epic statuary, that ascends
upward to infinity, the stairway
to heaven of the title. The trid
is in a huge amphitheater,
cleverly suggested as being
made of clouds. At the
conclusion of the trial, the

camera pulls back, and the
theater resolves visually into a
spiral nebula, one of the great
visual and conceptual moments
in fantastic cinema. When
exfiosed to an absolutely cold
analytical eye, these effects
show Em air of artifice, but
suggestion and the flow of the
intelligent script manage to
utterly convince the viewer.

Yet another method is to
avoid visual effects entirely and
to simply suggest the unbe-
lievable; this takes great talent
to pull off, and even then can
be used only in certain genres,
primarily the horror film. It was
this on which the fame of Val
Lewton’s horror films of the
40s are based (The Cat People,
etc.); hardly anything is shown,
but implication and soxmd
effects are used for subliminal
evocation of horrors. And it
was this that made the
cinematic Turn of the Screw,
Jack Clayton’s The Innocents,
so hair raising (literally— it was
the first time I had ever felt
that interesting phenomenon).
So far as I can remember, there
was not one special effect used
in the film. Incidentally, it is
one film that does not hold up
well on TV. Usually I find
commercials not difficult to
turn off mentEilly, since most
films in their natural rhythm
CEm take momentary inter-
ruptions; it’s like laying down a
novel every ten minutes or so.

FILMS

103

But The Innocents has such a
one-lined build of tension that
the start-stop of television does
it in entirely.

The inherent problem with
science fiction in film, of
course, is that so much takes
place in totally different en-
vironments such as space or
other planets. This is almost
impossible to evoke or suggest;
you simply need a Quo Vadis
budget to build it. There are
exceptions, of course. The
Incredible Shrinking Man took
a classic s-f theme and realized
it brilliantly; Revolt of the
Humanoids made a valiant
attempt to create a future
android/human society on a
very slim budget and nearly
carried it off with clever design
and a script that made no
concessions away from its

excellent 40s style s-f ambiance.

But until 2001, no film ever
brought the feeling of space
flight to me. (Even there, the
“trip” sequence is a stylized
evocation rather than the more
“realistic” journey described by
Clarke in the novel.) But like
everything else I’ve talked of in
this space, it seemed to depend
much on the receptivity,
susceptibility, and good will of
the viewer. After my initial
ecstatic review of 2001, I
received a verbose and endless
phone call from an irate lady
who demanded a retraction,
mainly because of all those
shabby, shoddy models that
Kubrick had used. Which goes
to prove, I guess, that one
man’s marvel is another man’s
papier-mache.

Mercury Press, Inc., Box 56, Cornwall, Conn. 06753

Enter my subscription to F&SF— 16 extra pages in every issue— at the regular
rates. I enclose □ $8.50 for one year; □ $21 .00 for three years.

10-2

Please print

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Address

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Add 50)t per year for Canada and Mexico; $1 .00 for other foreign countries

0aiwv

(j)'doarv

“Just exactly what are you teaching these children,
MissRawleyV'

104

Harry Harrison is one of sf’s most versatile
writers {and editors— his latest book is
B E ST S F : 1971, from Putnam) , but he has
few peers when it comes to the writing of
fast-moving, humorous sf like this brisk
tale of a fantastic shipboard romance.

Strangers

by HARRY HARRISON

IT HAD RAINED DURING the
night, scrubbing the air clean so
that the looming gray bulk of
Gibraltar stood out sharp and
clear against the unbelievable
blue of the Mediterranean sky.
The blue that is impossible to
mix on the palette; I tried I
don’t know how many times
before I finally stomped on my
paint box and threw the whole
mess over the side. Now there
was The Rock, like something
off a picture postcard or out of
an insurance ad, and there was I
on the rusty deck of the Mafia
Bella heading ofr home. Depres-
sing. The summer was over.
Europe was saying an indif-
ferent good-by. The dudes
down there in the rowboats
with the sleezy rugs and shining
brass junk were my farewell
committee. I spat into the
ocean and turned my back on
Europe.

Africa was waiting on the

other side of the strait, just
hazy green hills from here. Yet
hooked on to those hills was a
continent; steamy jungles, burn-
ing desert, exotic cities, ele-
phants, cannibals, barebreasted
broads, the whole steaming
stew the mind conjures up at
the mention of the word.
Africa, I was saying good-by to
Africa too— without ever even
seeing it. Andy Davis: ex-stu-
dent, ex-painter. Ex-expatriate
as well. Back to the land of the
Establishment which would
reach out and grab me the
second my foot touched the
shore. The Army, A job.
Responsibilities, A wife. Kids. I
could see it all and I was
thoroughly depressed.

I had been hearing the
bam-bam exhaust for some
time, and now the vessel itself
swxmg around the bow of the
ship and headed for the lowered
companionway. It was maybe

106

twenty feet long with a squaye
cabin in the center that
sprouted a pipe smokestack
that puffed out a snort of black
diesel smoke every time the
engine fired. Ragged guys on
deck, plenty of shouting in a
couple of languages; and frezied
throwing of ropes before they
drifted to a halt. More shouts
while they levered out a couple
of ancient heavy trunks onto
tne companionway and up to
the Ship. A new passenger? I
moved over for a better view.
My only fellow passenger on
the fireighter was an old French
priest with red eyes and a
bobbing head and not a word of
English. Smiles and bonjours
were hot my idea of bright
conversation. Captain Sebas-
tiano spoke a kind of English,
but he was put out by my
rebuff when I explained that
though I swung I didn’t swing
the way he did, and so now he
had his eyes on the young
messboy and only glared at me
whenever we met. So another
passenger would really help
since I didn’t look forward to
talking to myself and counting
rivet heads all the way across
the Atlantic.

It was another passenger, but
I was still out of luck. An Arab
woman, head to toes in yards of
black cloth, black shoes and
gloves, a veil, the works. She
would talk Arabic and maybe
French and be a hundred years

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

old, and there went my jollies
for this crossing. The teunks
went by, and she came up the
steps looking down carefully,
and I wished I had bought some
more books for the trip,
bought some more books for
the trip.

When she passed she raised
her head, and I stared into the
darkest, blackest, loveliest eyes
I had ever seen. Fell down into
their depths as the poet said.
Just that quick look, vanished
in an instant, long lashes,
arched eyebrows, fair skin.
Then gone. I gaped after her,
and from the way she moved I
could tell she was young,
gracefully young.

Bam. Just like that, I went
to my cabin and closed the
door and dug out the bottle of
grappa and poured the water
glass half full and belted it
down. And shuddered. It hit me
real hard, and I’m not the kind
of guy that gets hit that way.
You know. Bam. Like in a song.
Across a crowded room. One
look, and then I knew. But this
wasn’t the romantic love the
songs sung about. This was
good old-fashioned lust. Maybe
when I saw what was behind
the veil and the clothes, I would
change my mind. Probably. But
it was the mystery that got to
me because not seeing what was
there I could imagine anything.
My imagination worked over-
time. I lay back on the bunk
with the warm patch of sunlight
from the porthole moving over
me and sucked at the grappa
and watched the visions go by.

STRANGERS

Ten days at sea, just her and
me.

I fell asleep during this haze
of pure delight, eind niy
imaginings carried over into my
dreams, which did them no
harm at all. Things were just
getting good when there was a
sharp crash that kicked me
awake and sitting up.

My glass. It had fallen to the
floor and broken. We were
under way, and the Maria Bella
was heaving up and down in a
more uncomfortable fashion
than I had ever known her to
do before. I went on deck and
saw the cold green of the
Atlantic rollers coming at me,
lifting, the ship and passing
beneath her. We had sailed
while I was asleep. I turned
quickly, and there was only the
open sea astern and a ragged
pennant of white gulls drifting
above the wake. The ship lifted
higher on a large wave, and for
an instant I could see a smudge
on the horizon, and then this
was gone too. My last sight of
Europe.

There was a bonging from
the passageway, and the mess-
boy poked his head out on
deck. “La cena, signore, ” he
said, bonging the gong in my
direction to drive home the
message.

“Si, pronto. ” And I meant it.
The cook was the only good
thing about this rusty tub, and
he liked everyone to the table

107

on time, or he sulked and
overcooked the spaghetti or
burned the meat. I hurried to
wash and remembered our new
passenger and so put on my last
clean shirt and my tie for the
occasion.

As usual the captain wasn’t
there. He ate in his own
quarters ever since our dif-
ference of opinion. The priest
nodded and smiled and sucked
at his soup, and the second
mate, Allesandro, looked up
and mumbled something unhap-
pily. He had reason to be
unhappy. He and Giorgio, the
first mate, were the only
officers other than the captain,
and he did as little work as
possible. So they stood watch
and watch, twelve on and
twelve off every day of the
week while at sea. They were
both always tired. But whoever
owned the ship saved a bundle
on salaries. The bowl of soup
was slid under my nose.
Minestrone again, but I loved it,
and I shook it full of cheese and
poured in some of the rough
red wine from the carafe on the
table, filling my glass too, and
dived in.

I was sopping up the last
dregs with bread when she came
into the dining room.

She was in silently and
seated at an empty place at the
long table before I was even
aware of it. I pulled the napkin
away from around my neck—

108

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

keep my only tie clean at any
cost— and half rose, then
dropped back. She was silent,
calm, and those eyes above the
veil, just as I remembered them
only maybe better.

“Buona sera, ” Allesandro
muttered.

‘Buona sera. ”

Sweet as a bell. None of the
harshness that most Arab
women seem to have to their
voices.

‘Buona sera, ” I said, not to
be left out of the act. “E,
anche. . . signora, signorina, I
mean. Allesandro, how in hell
do you say welcome aboard?”

“I speek English eef you
weesh.”

“Cool. I do too.” Witty as
hell tonight. “So welcome
aboard.”

She just nodded at that and
sat there as calm as a statue. My
brain ground to a stop, and
there was nothing I could say
though I had been most chattily
seductive in my erotic imagina-
tion of the afternoon. I gulped
down some wine and watched
out of the comer of my eye as
the soup arrived and was put in
front of her. Now unless she
had a damned big soda straw,
sqmething would have to be
done about the veil. I felt a
tightening in my gut, and I
drank some more wine.

It was simple enough. She
just unhooked the black veil
and took it off.

My erotic fantasies had been
seVond-rale. This was a face in a
thousand, the kind they photo-
graph for the magazine covers
and make screen tests of, or
maybe launch a thousand ships
for. Pointed and heart-shaped,
smooth and flawless. Full lips,
red and moist, the nose a
graceful swoop, the cheekbones
just right. If I wasn’t such a
lousy second-rate artist, I would
have painted that face. As a
not-too-bad lover, I wanted to
kiss those lips. Would I were the
chunks of macaroni in her
minestrone, as the poet said.
Speak lover, begin the immortal
conversation that will bring her
rushing to your arms.

“My name is Andy Davis.”
Ohh, that will bring her rushing
all right, but, Christ, at least I
was talking again. “Your fellow
passenger.”

She looked at me again,
spoon poised halfway to her
mouth, frowning slightly.
Translation problems? Should I
tell her again? Before I could
make my mind up, she spoke.

“I am fellow passenger as
well. My name ees Tamu
Safavi.”

“That’s a very nice name.”

“My father gave eet to me.”

“That’s great. My father gave
me mine too.” He hadn’t. In
fact he wouldn’t even use it. I
was named after my mother’s
uncle, whom he despised, and
he always called me Buster.

STRANGERS

“I’m named after Andrew
Jackson, Old Stonewall, who is
a relative.”

“An old stone wall?”

Allesandro snorted loudly
and began to chew on some
olives. I ignored him. We were
rapping and that is what
counted. There would be plenty
of time to improve the quality
of the conversation.

The thing was she wanted to
talk, I felt that at once. And her
accent wasn’t as bad as I
thought it was. We talked
throu^ the rest of the meal,
which I do not remember at all,
and she told me about this
town where she came from, I
forget its name, and how her
old man was in business and
that is where the money came
from and how she was on the
way to the States to stay with
relatives. I told her how I got
out of college and had worked
at a job and saved to come to
Europe and I had, and how my
old man was a vice president of
a corporation she had maybe
heard of, but she hadn’t, most
of which was true, except I
forgot to mention I got out of
college by being thrown out,
and how the Army had its jaws
open to swallow me as soon as I
appeared again. And how I
didn’t want to get swallowed,
or get married and have a house
in the suburbs and grab the
8:07 every day, or how much I
enjoyed booze and a joint now

109

and then and did not have the
slightest idea where I was at or
where I was going.

Then she said excuse me and
drifted off, and I went back to
my cabin and finished the
grappa, and even in the dark I
could still see her face.

The next morning when I
came up, she was sitting in a
deck chair reading the Bible.
She was no longer wearing the
veil but was still draped in the
black outfit, clothes by Omar
the Tentmaker. Then she
looked up and caught me
staring at the Bible.

“Do you know this book?”
she asked.

“Yeah, sure. Always a copy
around the house. A best
seller.”

“The priest gave it to me at
breakfast. He said it would do
me good, and it does make
interesting historical reading.
Parts of it are exactly like the
Koran. I must give him a Koran
in return.”

“I don’t think that’s what he
had in mind.” I dropped into
the next chair and opened my
shirt. The sun was warm, and I
was not getting into any
religious discussions, thank you,
no. “Great day for sunbathing.”
Her eyebrows lifted daintily.

“Sunbathing. That’s what we
do a lot of.” A quick lecture on
comparative civilization, and
the Bible is forgotten. “In your
country you wear heavy clothes

110

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

to keep off the heat of the sun,
but we do it the other way. See
how these chairs are made so
-you can stretch out. We wear
heavy clothes all winter, then
'peel down in the summer to get
a tan. Everybody does it.”

“Peel? That means to strip
off the skin, rind, bark, etc.,
decorticate. You will not peel
off your skin?” I had to laugh,
and she hesitated a second, then
laughed as well. “I have made a
foolish linguistic mistake?”

“Hardly. You’re correct,
though that decorticate is a new
one to me. Peel, that’s slang, to
take off your clothes. Like,
look, I’ll peel off my shirt now
so the sun can get to me.” And
I did. Things were moving along
just too nicely.

“Do you peel off all your
clothes? We would never do
that.”

Wouldn’t you? Not even if I
helped. I choked over the
thought and had a quick cough
to cover it.

“No, not all the clothes. We
usually wear swim clothes for
sunbathing, that kind of thing.”

“And what are they?”

“It’s, well, sort of hard to
describe.” Brainstorm. “Look,
hold on a sec. I have a magazine
in my cabin with pix in it, sort
of give you the idea.”

A beat-up copy of Life.
Ticket to paradise. I was down
the steps and back inside sixty
seconds, thumbing through it.

Jackpot! A bathing suit ad with
zoftig broads lolling around in
postures of wild abandon.

“I see,” Tamu said, but
never changed expression. Very
cool this girl. “The fabric and
colors appear different, but
essentially the same areas are
covered in all the designs.”

“Yes, those are the areas—
the idea, you have the idea.”

“May I read the rest of the
magazine?”

“Great, keep it if you want.
I’m going to get some coffee-
want some?”

She shook her head no,
already well into the mag, and I
went -after the coffee, which I
needed. When I came back she
was gone, and she didn’t come
out for lunch, and I was going
to knock and see if anything
was wrong, but when I passed
her cabin I didn’t have the
nerve. The captain’s door
opened when I went by, and
the messboy came out and
rolled his eyes sadly at me, and
the captain, glaring and shirt-
less, slammed the door behind
him. I looked at my money
again, and it hadn’t grown since
last I looked, so I decided what
the hell I might as well be broke
as land in New York with seven
bucks and so went to buy
another dollar bottle of grappa
from the purser. A few good
belts of this helped my
digestion and state of mind, and
I went back on deck, and she'

STRANGERS

111

was there in the same deck
chair.

Only this time wearing a
tight black low-cut bathing suit.

“Is there something wrong
with it?” she asked when I
braked to a sudden stop.

“No, great, couldn’t be
greater. I thought you didn’t
know anything about this kind
of thing?’’

“I assembled it out of other
clothes I have. If I am to go to
the States, I must dress as
others dress.”

“A nice idea.” I dropped
into the next chair feeling
definitely light-headed. She had
a build like the kind you always
hope you are going to see but
never do. All girl, lots of it,
looking very soft and pneumat-
ic indeed, and it took an effort
of will not to lick my lips.

“Now we will sunbathe, and
I hope you will tell me more
about your country that I have
never seen.”

I did. She was eager to hear
everything about our great land,
and I gave it to her, chapter and
verse. First general, cultural,
artistic, and political, then
specific, social customs and
habits, aiming eventually at a
detailed lecture, with examples,
on interpersonal relationships.
She listened intently every foot
of the way. Nail polish and
maniciuing needed a demon-
stration that involved my
holding her hand— and a neat

little warm hand it was
too!— that did not bother her in
the slightest. But time had
slipped by a lot faster than I
had realized, so that just at this
happy moment there was a
bong in my ear and the
messboy With gong and hammer
stood there looking at me
reproachfully out of his hound
dog eyes. It was time to get
dressed for dinner.

This time when I passed the
captain’s cabin, the door swung
open suddenly, and he popped
out like a Mediterranean jack-
in-the-box.

“I am watching you with
this woman,” he hissed.

“Don’t be jealous, not your
type.”

“Do not make fun with me.
She is no good Arab woman
with her clothes off and no veil.
And the talk. At first she speaks
English very bad, then lil at
once, instantaneamente, she
speaks perfect with North
American accent.”

“Can’t hate the girl because
she’s got a good ear.”

“Una meretrice! That’s what
she is. Prostituta for the CIA.
CIA spy!” He was waving his
hands and getting very excited,
and so I squeezed by.

“You have too much imag-
ination, Captain. Just too
much.”

But did he? I thought about
it while I shaved with the rusty
trickle of lukewarm water from

112

had read it from the dictionary.
Like that other time with peel.
Is that why her English, was so
good? She had memorized a
dictionary. I knew she was
bright— but that bright? I stole a
quick look, but she was intent
on absorbing every page of a
coverless Reader's Digest. Try
my tie carefully so the knot
covered the new spot of
spaghetti sauce and grabbed up
the magazines she had asked
about. The captain was a nut.

We moved to the cracked
leather chairs at the end of the
dining room after dinner, and
Tamu dived into the reading.
The priest vanished without
nodding, misunderstanding the
gift of the Koran perhaps, and I
found a magazine with a
crossword puzzle I hadn’t done
and waded into it when Tamu
showed no interest in continu-
ing our conversation. She had
the thick black outfit on again,
and it was intimidating.

“Fraggis. . .frittle. . I mut-
tered and erased.

“What is that?” she asked.

“Microscopic substructure,”
I answered, purely by reflex,
intent on the puzzle. “Eight
letters beginning with FR.”

“Frustule, botany, the si-
liceous cell wall of a diatom.”
Then she was back at her
reading.

It fit. It was right. Just like a
definition out of the dictionary.
In fact it sounded just like she

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

the faucet. The CIA part, I
mean that was screwball. But
Tamu was speaking good
English, incredibly better Eng-
lish than she had been speaking
just a day earlier. She was a
bright girl, that’s all. She picked
things up fast. Nothing else.

Yet it still bugged me. I tied
another one, this could have
been a fluke.

“Madly desirous, twelve let-
ters.”

“Concupiscent.”

“Yes, that seems to fit. Here,
nineteen down, beginning with
an H, Six letters, a feudal service
or tribute—”

“Heriot.”

And she did it, I swear, while
she was still reading about The
Greatest Character Working for
the F.B.I. I Have Ever Known. I
was beginning to sweat. I had
never even heard of heriot, but
it fit perfectly. What was with
this girl? A great memory,
photographic maybe, trained to
remember anything read. A
spy? That was nuts. I was
beginning to think like the
captain. Memory was one thing,
intelligence another. I scratched
some figures in the margin of
the page.

“Here is an interesting
puzzle, ha-ha. There are ninety-
two. . .hunters and they go
hunting and every guy shoots
four hundred and thirty ducks.
How many ducks do they kill?
This is a time limit. .

. CTRANGERS

“Thirty-nine thousand, five
hundred and sixty. That is a
very large flock of ducks.”
Turning the page, not even
looking up.

This was all wrong. This was
no half-educated Arab girl from
the back of beyond. She
pretended to be unsophis-
ticated, but it didn’t work. She
could do math in her head that
I had to work out on paper.
And maybe had a better
vocabulary than I had. Me, a
dropout from one of the better
universities. I’m not sure I liked
it. I caught a sudden movement
out of the corner of my eye and
looked up to see the purser
going into his cabin. Now that
was a thought.

“Have to see the purser,” I
muttered and went after him.

“You can have good Scotch
whiskey for only two dollars,”
he said gloomily, digging into
the stacked boxes. A man with
an ulcer surrounded by a sea of
booze. He had a right to be
gloomy.

“It is a matter of budget not
quality, signore purser. The few
bucks I have left must get me to
New York. So I consider only
alcoholic content for money
paid. Grappa. Please.”

He dug out a bottle of the
oily, clear, poisonous liquid—
with a corncob for a cork, a bit
of symbolism I have never been
quite able to understand— and
dusted it off.

113

“Six hundred lire or a dollar
American.”

I slapped at my pocket and
realized I had left my wallet in
my cabin when I had changed.

“I’ll bring you the money
later.” The bottle vanished back
into the box far faster than it
had appeared. “You can trust
me. I’m not going to jump
overboard and swim ashore
with your buck bottle of booze
in my teeth.” He sat unmoving,
slumped under the weight of all
the poverty forced upon him by
embezzling tourists. “All right
then, don’t lock up. I’ll be right
back.”

Tamu was gone, though the
magazines were still there,
which was okay. A few stiff
belts would clear my head
before I tried talking to her
again. I went down quietly past
her cabin so she wouldn’t hear
me and to my own, the door of
which was slightly open.

I had left it closed. And
locked. I always kept it closed
and locked so there would be
no temptation for any of the
crew to lift anything of
mine— or my few remaining
dollars. Which were in the
room!

I threw the door open. It
was anger, pure and simple.
Really simple. If I had stopped
to think for a moment, I could
have visualized one of the
musclebound stokers, my wallet
in one fist, a length of lead pipe

114

in the other. Bam on the head;
over the side. Not nice. But I
did not stop to think or
summon aid but barged right in.

Tamu was standing over my
open suitcase with my passport
in her hand.

It was a stopper all right.
What did you say in a situation
like this? I was still angry and
that helped.

“You have broken into my
cabin and are stealing my
passport!”

“How cruel of you. The
door was open and I came in. I
have stolen nothing.”

“You have it in your hand!”

“I am examining it. It is a
very interesting document.”

“You better believe it, baby,
and hard to come by. Now
hand it back.”

. She hesitated a moment,
looking at me closely, before
she spoke.

“I would very much like to
examine it further. Just for a
little while. You know I will
give it back— what else could I
do?”

What else? What did she
mean? And I was still angry.

“Of course you can examine
it. But the examination fee for
the standard blue American
passport with a number punch-
ed through it is a hundred
dollars an hour.”

“Very agreeable. Here is the
hundred dollars.”

And she had it too, in a little

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

purse she dug out of her
clothes. Five twenties, coin of
the realm. They were in my
palm, and she was out of the
door before I could realize what
had happened.

One hundred bucks. They
crinkled and smelt like the real
green, and for all I could tell
they were. And a minute later
the purser agreed with me as he
cashed one and gave me the
change from two bottles of real
Scotch whiskey. He almost even
smiled at the magnitude of the
purchase. The stuff tasted very,
very good indeed, and I chased
the first glassful with a second
to warm me all the way down.

Why? Don’t ask. There are
times for questions and times
for spending. This was a
spending time. Europe was
behind me, America ahead, a
mystery woman in my life, and
money in my pocket. Plus,
there was more than booze on
this ship . One of the sailors had
already sidled up and tried to
sell me a lid of what looked like
very fair grass except I was too
broke to buy. I wasn’t now!
The hell with mystery and
women when there were head-
ier pleasures awaiting.

I got smashed, bombed,
really wiped out. I’m not sure
why. Maybe long abstinence,
maybe thoughts of the future,
maybe my mysterious CIA-
Arab Mata Hari. Maybe because
I’m just stupid. I knew from sad

STRANGERS

experience that joints and juice
don’t mix, but I wasn’t
remembering this night. I sat
out on the fantail and drank
and smoked and looked at the
stars which were doing things
that I had never seen stars do
before, and it was just pure luck
I didn’t roll over the side into
the ocean and drown.

An indeterminate length of
time later I found my supplies
depleted and wondered if I
could get some more, then
wondered if I had any money
left, then wondered if it might
not be time to find my cabin.
Mind you, the thoughts did not
move in this logical or simple a
fashion, but this is what they
added up to because I found
myself further down the rail,
then on a stairway, then in a
corridor. I had no memory of
physically moving, just these
still scenes like bits of a badly
cut movie full of sharp
transitions. I was in front of a
door and a little screwing up of
my eyes to read the number
and some more difficult screw-
ing up of my brain to remember
the significance of the number
produced the fact that it was
her cabin.

“Her cabin,” I told myself
with authority. Some sort of
bright blue li^t was flickering
on and off inside the cabin, I
could see it beneath the door,
but it was of no interest to me.
“My passport. You have rented

11 r.

my passport and the hour is up.
Return my passport.”

When I knocked, the door,
unlocked, swung open. There
was some sort of sound and the
blue light went out. I pushed
the door wide and went into
the dark room. The door was
closed behind me, and I was
aware of Tamu, quite close.

“Your passport is back i'T
your room. I returned it some
time ago.”

“Passport,” I said, putting
my hands out to find my
balance in the unsteady dark-
ness. Instead of solid wall I
touched soft woman. My hands
were on her shoulders, he/
back, before I realized that it
was skin I was touching not
clothing.

“Tamu. .

“You had better go to your
cabin now, Andy. We’ll talk in
the morning.”

“Tamu,” pulling her closer.

“Please, I do not think this is
wise.”

Her flesh was velvet.

“Don’t argue about it now,
Andy. It is not a matter of a
simple yes or no, or of what
you call morality. Should you
be dding that?”

I should. I did. I wanted to.
There were no more arguments.

It was afternoon before I
could crawl out of bed, and
crawl was all I could do. I wai
in my own cabin, and I never

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

116

questioned how I had gotten
here. In fact memory of the
jorevious evening returned only
lowly as I chewed all the
ispirins and pills I had, took a
old shower, and rang for the
lessboy, who finally appeared
nd had to be fearfully
^vertipped to bring me lots of
black coffee at this unusual
hour of the day. His eyes
brimmed with sorrow as always
\vhen he looked at me, though
this time with damn good
reason.

When memory and an
imitation of health had re-
turned, I began to beam at
myself in the mirror. This was
qoing to be a good trip after all.
Shaved, powdered and restored,
I went out and down the
corridor, whistling, to Tamu’s
cabin and pushed the door
open.

“Hi!” I called out warmly,
but there was no one there. The
cabin was neat, the big trunks
closed and locked, no clothing
or personal possessions in sight
at all. Except for an American
passport on the writing desk.
Mine? But mine was still in my
cabin; I had found it there and
locked it away. I picked it up
and turned to the first page,
looking at the photograph with
the official red and blue
lettering across the edge of it.
Tamw stared up at me out of
Jie picture.

It could not be true, but it

was. It was her, wearing a white
blouse. The page opposite gave
the name of Tammy Savani.
Tamu Safavi? Birthplace, Con-
necticut, U.S.A. Was she CIA
then and the captain was right?
Or maybe the other gang, a
Russian— and what had she
wanted my passport for?

“When you are through
examining it, may I have it
back?” she asked. Inside with
her back to the closed door.

“You’re an American?”

“No.”

“Well then a Soviet spy— or a
Peking commando or—”

“No. None of those things.
But I will tell you if you will
listen.”

“Tell, tell,” I said, throwing
the passport down and drop-
ping into the chair. The
headache was back with ham-
mers in the temple, and I was
feeling very confused and not
too good.

“This is a business trip,
nothing more. I am a commer-
cial representative representing
Certain financial interests inter-
ested in investments.”

“You said you were a simple
Arab girl.”

“A necessary cover.” She
stood calmly, unemotionally,
with her hands lost in her dark
garments;

“Well what are you really?”
I was feeling quite peckish.

“If I were to tell you, what
would you do?”

STRANGERS

“What? Nothing I suppose.
I’m no business spy or
salesman. Doesn’t bother me. If
you were a government spy,
okay, that’s different, and I’m
still going to believe you are
until you convince me dif-
ferent. But business is business,
that’s what dad always says.”

“Very wise of your father. I
must meet him. I am sure it
would be to our mutual
financial advantage.”

“You ought to meet him—
you are even beginning to
sound like him. Convince him
he can make money selling
Hammer and Sickle tractors,
and he’ll have everyone in the
office with red stars in their
buttonholes. So what country
are you from?”

“None you know.”

This teed me. “My geog-
raphy isn’t that bad, maybe
my best subject. I know every
country, even the new ones.”

“My country is incredibly
distant, a matter of light-years.”

“Yeah, yeah, like on another
planet.”

“That is correct.”

Well that stopped me, as you
might imagine. And sobered
me.

“You are making a big
statement, Tammy-Tamu, Do
you have any proof?”

“Of course I do, more than
enough. I am here to attempt to
open commercial relationships
with your world, and so I have

117

a complete range of samples of
products as well as details of
manufacturing techniques and
other items that might be of
interest.”

“Show me.”

She did. She took her hand
out of her clothing and held up
a red cylinder about as long as
my thumb.

“Brownian thermal utiliza-
tor, a generalized heat tool. No
external power source needed
since it taps molecular binding
energy. Useful life about a
hundred of your years. Two
controls. This single wheel
adjusts the output from a small
thermion about the size of the
flame of a cigarette lighter,” it
flared bluely, “to a wider area
that may be used for food
preparation, paint removal,
industrial applications, or any
other use.” A red* disc appeared
in the air which wavered with
heat waves.

“Very handy gadget.” My
throat was very dry.

“Or at full output and
narrow field it produces a
thermal lance that has applica-
tions in welding, cutting and
other uses.”

A red line, thin as a thread,
sparked from her hand and
across the room where it burnt
a blistering, melting hole in the
steel bulkhead. The thing
snapped off and she put the
gadget down on the table. I
looked at it with very wide eyes

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

118

*nd felt no temptation to pick
it up.

“A very nasty weapon,” I
said.

“It could be used as that.”

“And you had it in your
hand while we talked. In case I
gave the wrong answers to your
questions?” She did not reply,
and I did not press the point.
“Then I gave the right
answers?”

“Yes. I was rather sure you
would. I wish to employ you as
a cultural contact for our
organization, lawyers, engi-
neers, and the like, after the
opening negotiations are es-
tablished. Your main occupa-
tion will be to see that contact
with yovu: governmental and
business executives runs
smoothly in the opening when
difficulties might arise. .

“They might see you as
front man— girl— for an in-
vasion.”

“They might. A very primi-
tive reaction. You will advise
ways to avoid this kind of
occurrence. Your fee will be
one million dollars and one
millionth of one percent of net
profits during a period of two
decades or your life, whichever
is the longer.”

“You talk like a lawyer,”
Tamu.”

“I am one, among other
things.”

“And one of those things is a
woman. Do you want to tell me

about that? Is it an accident
that your people and mine are
so much alike?”

“No accident. Quite de-
liberate. We have many similar-
ities; erect bipeds, bisexual,
binocular vision and hearing,
etc., but the differences, I am
afraid, outweigh the similar-
ities;”

“You look pretty similar to
me.”

“Elective surgery. Our medi-
cal techniques are far beyond
yours in every way. That is
another item we should be able
to sell.”

I tried to imagine what she
really looked hke— then tried
not to imagine. It might be best
to settle for the form I knew.
Particularly after the previous
night. Last night!

“I’m— I guess sorry about
what happened here last night.
I’m afraid I wasn’t quite
myself. .

“I was fully aware of that.
The odors of cannabis and ethyl
alcohol were quite strong. I
thought you might cause a
disturbance if you did not get
your way. I could not turn on
the lights because the dimen-
sional copier was open while I
prepared my passport from
yours. The course chosen
seemed to be the wisest for the
occasion.”

“Yes, ha-ha, wisest. Glad
you didn’t mind.”

“I felt no emotion at all

STRANGERS

about the occasion. Had I been
a zoologist or an anthropolo-
gist, I might have taken notes.
Though it did make me aware
of one factor that perhaps ypu
might like to know. Mine is a
bisexual race, as I told you. For
first contact on this world I
adopted this form of the female
of your species that the
exobiologists assured me would
be both attractive and motherly
to bring out protective instincts
in the male.”

“The ample motherly aspect
brings out other instincts as
well.”

“I am aware of that now and
will inform our specialists of
the fact. What I wish to inform
you of is the fact that the
female form was adopted for
this role.”

“Then you are. .

“Male. Exactly. One of the

119

senior executives in our larges t
corporation.”

I was right. She— I mean
he— and dad would really get
along. The potted biograph>
my father had had written for
him described himself in the
same words. Senior executivi
. . .largest corporation. Maybe
they were from differen
planets, but they thought alike
They were part of the establish-
ment, and it was depressing tr
•think of the establishmen
stretching from one side to the
other of the galaxy. But I
shouldn’t complain. Me and my
million dollars and my per
centage were going to be part of
it now.

And then I had an even more
depressing thought.

I mean I always said screw
the establishment.

But literally?

ISAAC ASIMOV

SCIENCE

THE UNLIKELY
TWINS

A LITTLE OVER A YEAR AGO
(as I write this) I was urged by
two estimable ladies at Walker
and Company to write a satire
on the sexual “how-to” books
that were, and are, infesting the
nation. Much against my better
judgement I let myself be
talked into it, and one weekend
in April, 1971, I sat down and
dashed off something called
THE SENSUOUS DIRTY OLD
MAN. (A case of typecasting, I
suppose, except that I’m not
really old.)

It was published under the
transparent pseudonym of “Dr.
A.,” and I was under the
impression that nobody was
going to know I wrote it.

Fat chance! The “secret”
was announced in a press
release even before the book
was published, and pretty soon
I found myself on television in
my role as sensuous dirty
late-youth man. And now it is
out in paperback with the “Dr.
A.” followed by my full name
in parentheses.

Since the book is not grimy,
it never made the best-seller
lists. On the other hand, since it
is funny, it sells pretty well.

SCIENCE 121

And because it is not grimy and is funny, I’m not in the least
ashamed of it.

One thing, though, is that I’m getting (and expect to continue
to get) a rash of speaker-introductions that include “—and among
his umpty-ump books are ASIMOV’S GUIDE TO THE BIBLE and
THE SENSUOUS DIRTY OLD MAN.”

The incongruous coupling is always good for a laugh, which, of
course, is why they do it.

Incongruous couplings are amusing, or disturbing, in science,
too, and I will now go on to talk of it in connection with a pair of
particularly unlikely chemical twins.

Carbon is one of the elements known to the ancients, because
its chemical properties are Such that it can exist free in nature; and
because it is solid, and therefore easily recognizable. There are
nine such elements altogether and, of these, seven are metals.
(See THE FIRST METAL, December, 1967.) Only two are
non-metals; carbon is one and sulfur is the other.

Carbon actually exists as a mineral and can be dug out of the
earth. In one of its less common forms it is a black, flaky
substance that can be used for making marks. While solid enough
to stick together in a chunk, tiny pieces will rub off when it is
passed over some surface. Pieces of such carbon (mixed with clay)
are used as the “lead” in pencils and it is therefore called
“graphite” from a Greek word meaning “to write.”

The ancients did not, however, come across carbon in the form
of graphite to begin with. It is much more likely that their first
experience with carbon came in connection with wood fires. If the
pile of burning wood was large and insufficiently aerated, the wood
inside the pile would not burn completely. Atoms in the wood other
than carbon (chiefly the hydrogen atom) would combine
readily with oxygen. It was molecules of hydrogen-combined-with-
carbon, that produced the vapors and dancing flame. Carbon
atoms in themselves combine with oxygen not at all readily, and
when the hydrogen -containing compounds are consumed and the
. flame dies down, wood that has been charred blackly into carbon
may be left behind.

In Latin, this black stuff was called “carbo,” from which we get
our word “carbon.” In English, the word “coal” originally meant
any glowing ember, and when such embers ended up charred into
a black substance, or when such a black substance could form an

122

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

ember, it was called “charcoal.”

The value of charcoal was that it would bum if it was well
exposed to air, but unlike wood, would release no vapors to speak
of and yield no flame. It merely glowed, and the result was that it
delivered a particularly high temperature over a particularly long
period of time. The high temperature was particularly valuable in
the smelting of iron, and charcoal-making became an importemt
industry. (Since it was particularly wasteful of wood, it
accelerated the disappearance of forests in those areas where
•metallurgy was important.)

Over geologic ages, whole forests have slowly undergone a kind
of natural charring by heat, pressure, and insufficient oxygen, and
thick seams of carbon are commonly found undei^ound. This is
“coal” (because it will form a coal in the old sense if heated).

Some forms of coal are more nearly pure carbon than others
are. If coal is heated without access to oxygen, the
non-carbonaceous portion is driven off, and what is left is called
“coke.”

Another form of carbon which must certainly have been noted
in earliest times is the soot deposited out of the smoke and vapor
of burning wood or oil. This is composed of carbon fragments left
behind when the readily inflammable hydrogen -containing
compounds burn, with the hydrogen seizing the oxygen so avidly
that the carbon atoms are sometimes crowded out. This soot,
mixed with oil, formed the first inks, so that carbon is the secret
of both pen and pencil.

All these forms of carbon are black and brittle. Graphite is
clearly crystalline while the other forms are not. Charcoal, coal,
coke and soot, in all their various forms, are, however, made up of
crystals of microscopic or sub-microscopic size, and these are
always identical to those in graphite. It is perfectly fair, therefore,
to lump all the forms of black carbon together as “graphite.”

To be sure, although carbon has been known in elementary
form since prehistoric times, its recognition as an element in the
modem chemical sense did not take place until chemists
understood what elements were— in the modem chemical sense.

It was not till the 1 8th Century that chemists developed a clear
notion of elements, and it was only then that it was realized that
graphite was an element, being made up of carbon atoms only.

Now we change the subject, apparently. Since ancient times,
occasional pebbles were discovered which differed from aU others

SCIENCE

123

in being extremely hard. They could not be scratched by anything
else, rocks, glass or the sharpest metal. The pebbles, on the other
hand, could scratch anything else.

The Greeks called it “adamas” or, in the genitive case
“adamantos,” from words meaning “untamable” since there was
nothing else that could make an impression on it. This became
“adamant” in English, a word still used to signify the
characteristic of un changeability. However, the word also
underwent gradual distortion, including the loss of the initial “a,”
and became “diamond,” which is what we now call those hardest
of all pebbles.

In the early days of chemistry, chemists gained a furious desire
to know the composition of all things, diamonds included.
Diamonds were, however, hard to handle just because they were
“untamable.” Not only could they not be scratched, but they
remained untouched by almost all chemicals and were not affected
by even considerable heat.

What’s more, chemists weren’t too anxious to expose diamonds
to the chance of chemical or physical vicissitudes. A diamond
couldn’t possibly change into anything as valuable as itself, and
who wanted to buy a diamond and then destroy it.

What was needed was a rich patron and, as it happened, Cosimo
III Grand Duke of Tuscany, who ruled from 1670 to 1723, was
well-to-do and was interested in science. In about 1695, he
presented a couple of interested Italian scholars with a diamond,
and the scholars put it at the focus of a strong lens. The
concentrated Solar rays lifted the temperature of the diamond to a
level higher than that of any flame available to the experimenters.
—And the diamond disappeared completely.

That was their report, and, naturally, it was met with
considerable scepticism. Nevertheless, the number of chemists
willing to repeat the experiment was confined to those willing to
risk a diamond, and it was eighty years before the experiment was
repeated.

In 1771, a French chemist, Pierre Joseph Macquer, obtained a
flawless diamond and ^heated it to temperatures approaching
1000° C. The diamond was, by then, red-hot, yet there seemed to
be a still brighter glow around it. The temperature was maintained,
•and in less than an hour the diamond was gone.

Was the diamond simply vanishing in some mysterious way, or
was it burning? If it were burning as other things burned, a supply
of air would be necessary. A jeweler named Maillard therefore

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

124

packed diamonds into all sorts of non-combustibles, sealed the
whole system tightly and then heated it strongly enough to make
the diamond disappear. This time it did not disappear. The
conclusion was that diamonds burned in air just as so many other
things did— provided they were heated sufficiently.

About this time, the French chemist, Antoine Laurent
Lavoisier (See SLOW BURN, October, 1962.) was working out the
fundamentals of modern chemistry and he was to make it quite
clear that ordinary burning in air involved a combination with
oxygen of whatever it was that was burning. The burning object
turned into an oxide, and if it seemed to disappear, it was because
the oxide was a vapor. It could be concluded then that
diamond-oxide was a vapor.

One ought to trap and study the vapor if one wanted to find
out something about diamond. In 1773, Lavoisier, Macquer and a
couple of others heated a diamond under a glass bell jar, using a
giant burning glass. The diamond disappeared, of course, but now
the diamond-oxide vapor was trapped inside the bell jar. It could
be studied and was found to have the same properties as carbon
dioxide obtained by burning charcoal.

By the time Lavoisier had completely worked out his oxide
theory, he had to conclude that diamond and graphite both
yielded carbon dioxide and that both were therefore forms of pure
carbon.

The incongruity of placing diamond and graphite in the same
cubbyhole was so extreme as to cause laughter— or indignation.
Scientists found it hard to believe. Diamond (once it was properly
cut-^with other diamonds) was transparent and beautiful, while
graphite was black and dull. Diamond was the hardest substance
known; graphite was soft and so slippery that it could be used for
a lubricant. Diamond did not conduct an electric current; graphite
did.

For a generation, chemists remained doubtful, but more and
more experimentation finally made the fact incontrovertible.
Graphite and diamond were two different forms of carbon. In
1799, for instance, a French chemist, Guyton de Morveau, heated
diamond strongly in the absence of air (so that it would not bum)
and actually observed it change into graphite.

Naturally, once diamond was successfully turned to graphite,
there arose a furious interest in the possibility of doing the reverse;
of turning graphite into diamond. Throughout the 19th Century,
attempts were mede, and for a while it was believed that the

SCIENCE

125

French chemist, Henri Moissan, (See DEATH IN THE
LABORATORY, September, 1965.) had succeeded in 1893. He
actually presented diamonds he had prepared, one being a
thirty-fifth of an inch in diameter and, apparently, flawless.

The work could not be repeated, however, and it is now known
that diamonds couldn’t possibly be formed by the methods
Moissan used. The usual theory is that Moissan was victimized by
an assistant who hoaxed him and then dared not own up to it
when the hoax was taken seriously.

Carbon is not unique in this twinship. There are other cases of
elements existing in different forms. Ordinary oxygen consists of
molecules, each of which contain two oxygen atoms. Ozone,
however, (discovered in 1840) consists of molecules, each
containing three oxygen atoms. Oxygen and ozone are
“allotropes” (from a Greek word meaning “variety”) of oxygen.

There are allotropes of sulfur, phosphorus, and tin, too, and in
every case it is a matter of the atoms of the element being present
in any of two or more different arrangements.

Well, then, aren’t diamond and graphite just one more case of
allotropy? Yes, but in no other case are allotropes of an element
so distinct in properties, so radically different, as are diamond and
graphite. It is possible that such opposites can be produced merely
by rearranging the atoms?

Let’s go back to the carbon atom. It has four bonds; that is, it
can attach itself to four different atoms in four different
directions. The bonds are in the direction of the vertices of a
tetrahedron.

You can perhaps see this without a three-dimensional model
(two-dimensional drawings are of doubtful help) if you imagine
the carbon atom sitting on three of its bonds as though it were a
flattish three-legged stool, while the fourth bond is sticking
straight up.

If a series of carbon atoms are attached, one to another, to
form a chain, such a chain is usually written in a straight line, for
simplicity’s sake; -C-C-C-C-. Actually, it should be written zig-zag
to allow for the natural smgle (109.5°) at which the bonds are
placed.

By following the natural angle of the bonds it is easy to
produce a ring of six carbon atoms, but that ring isn’t flat. Seen in
profile, the two ends curl up or one end curls up while the other
curls down. Ignoring that, we can write the six-carbon

126 FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“cyclohexane ring” as follows;

si I ^
/\

Notice that each carbon atom has four bonds altogether. Two
are used up in joining to its neighbors in the ring, but the
remaining two are available for use in other ways.

In the case of each carbon atom, however, one of those two
spare bonds can be added to those forming the ring. In that case
each carbon atom is joined to one of its neighbors by a single bond
and to the other by a double bond to form a “benzene ring”, thus;

Ordinarily, a double bond between carbon atoms is less stable
than a single bond. You would expect that it would be easy to
convert the benzene ring into a cyclohexane ring— but it isn’t.
Quite the reverse! The benzene ring is more stable than the
cyclohexane ring despite the double bonds.

The reason for this is that the carbon atoms in the benzene ring
are in a plane; the benzene ring is perfectly flat. Furthermore, the
benzene ring is symmetrical. This flatness and symmetry adds to
the stability of the ring for reasons that require the use of
quantum mechanics, and, if you don’t mind, we’ll leave out the
quantum mechanics in these articles.

Of course, the benzene ring as I drew it above is not entirely
symmetrical. Each carbon atom has a single bond on one side and
a double bond on the other, and surely this represents an
asymmetry. Yes, it does, but this business about single bonds and
double bonds arose before chemists had learned about electrons.
Nowadays, we know that the bonds consist of shared electrons
and the electrons have wave properties.

If the single bonds and double bonds are taken literally, it
would seem that two carbon atoms separated by a single bond
share two electrons and two carbon atoms separated by a double

SCIENCE 127

bond share four electrons. This would be so if the electrons were
particles— but they are waves.

Because of the flatness and the symmetry of the benzene ring,
the electron-waves stretch over the entire benzene ring and
distribute themselves equally among all the atoms. The result is
that each carbon atom is attached to each of its neighbors in
precisely equal fashion (which is what makes the benzene ring so
stable). If we wanted to be simplistic, we would say that the six
connections in a benzene ring consisted of six “one-and-a-half”
bonds.

We could therefore write the benzene ring as follows, in order
to show the equivalence of the bonds and make the molecule
entirely symmetrical.

Notice that each carbon atom in the benzene ring still has one
spare bond that could be attached to some atom not in the ring.
These bonds can all be attached to still other carbon atoms which
can themselves form parts of other benzene rings. In the end you
can get a tessellation of hexagons (such as those we frequently see
on a tile floor) with carbon atoms at every vertex, thus:

If you imagine a large number of such flat tessellations, one
stack^ over another, then these tessellations will hold together,
not by oridinary chemical bonds, but by weaker “Van der Waals
forces.”

Each carbon atom in a hex^on is 1.4 angstroms from its
neighbor (where an “angstrom” is a hundred-millionth of a
centimeter). One tessellation is, however, 3.4 angstroms from the
one below. The longer distance in the second case is an expression
of the weaker force of attraction.

As it happens, pure graphite consists of just such stacks of
tessellations of carbon atoms. Each flat layer of hexagons holds

128

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

firmly together but can be easily flaked off the flat layer beneath.
It is for this reason that graphite can be used for writing or as a
lubricant.

Then, too, the electrons that stretch all over the benzene rings
have some of the properties of the mobile electrons that help form
metallic bonds. The result is that graphite can conduct an electric
current moderately well (though not as well as true metals).

Heat and electricity can travel more readily along the plane of
tessellation than they can travel from one plane to another. This
means that heat can travel through a graphite crystal in one
direction a thousand times more easily than it can in another
direction. The corresponding figure for electricity is two hundred.

What about diamond, now. Let’s go back to the single carbon
atom with its four bonds pointing equivalently in four directions;
a carbon atom sitting on a flat tripod with the fourth bond
upward.

Imagine each bond connected to a carbon atom, each of which
has three remaining bonds, and each of these is attached to a
carbon atom, each of which has three remaining bonds, and each
of these is attached to a carbon— And so on and so on and so on.

The result is an “adamantine” arrangement, a perfectly
symmetrical arrangement of carbqn atoms in three dimensions.

This means that all the carbon atoms are held equally well in
four different directions. No atom or group of atoms is
particularly easy to break off, so diamond won’t flake. You can’t
write with it or use it as a lubricant.

Quite the reverse. Since in every direction, carbon atoms are
held together by strong single bonds, and since these are the
strongest bonds to be found in any substance solid at ordinary
temperatures, diamond is unusually hard. It scratches rather than
being scratched and, far from lubricating, would quickly ruin
anything at all rubbing against it.

Fiu'thermore, the electrons in diamond are all held firmly in
place. Their waves are confined to the space between two atoms,
so that diamond is a poor conductor of heat and electricity.

About the only thing that isn’t easy to explain is why diamond
is transparent and graphite is opaque. That comes down to
quantum mechanics again, and I won’t try.

The next question is this: If you start with a lai-ge quantity of

SCIENCE

129

carbon atoms and let them combine, what arrangement will they
take up spontaneously: the graphite arrangement or the diamond
arrangement?

Well, it depends on conditions.

On the whole, the benzene ring is so stable that, given a
reasonable choice, carbon atoms will happily form these flat
hexagons. (While carbon atoms in the benzene ring are separated
by 1.4 angstroms, those in the adamantine arrangement are
separated by 1.5 angstroms.) Under most conditions, then, you
can expect graphite to be formed.

Diamond, however, has a density of about 3.5 grams per cubic
centimeter, while graphite, thanks to the large distance between
tessellations, has a density of only about 2 grams per cubic
centimeter.

If, therefore, carbon atoms are placed under huge pressure, the
tendency to have them rearrange themselves into a form taking up
less room eventually becomes overwhelming and diamond is
formed.

But if at ordinary pressure, graphite is the form of choice, how
is it that diamonds exist? Even assuming they were formed in the
first place under great pressure deep in the bowels of the earth,
why do they not turn to graphite as soon as the pressure is
relieved?

There’s a catch. The carbon atoms in diamond would indeed be
doing what comes naturally if they shifted into the graphite
configuration. They are held so tightly by their bonds, however,
that the energy required to break those bonds and allow the shift
is enormous. It is as though the diamond were on top of a hill and
perfectly ready to roll down it except that it is at the bottom of a
deep pit on the top of that hill and must be lifted out of the pit
before it can do any rolling.

If the temperature of diamond is raised to nearly 2000° C. (m
the absence of oxygen, so as to prevent burning) then it is lifted
out of the pit, so to speak. The atoms are shaken loose and take
up the preferred graphite configuration.

To do the reverse — to turn graphite into carbon— you need not
only very high temperatures to knock the atoms loose, but also
very high pressures to convince them they ought to take up the
denser diamond pattern.

Moissan’s facilities in 1893 were absolutely incapable of
delivering the simultaneous heights of temperature and pressure'
required so that we know he could not really have formed

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

130

synthetic diamonds. In 1955, scientists at General Electric
Company managed to form the first synthetic diamonds by
working with temperatures of 2500° C. combined with pressures
of over 700 tons per square inch.

One last item, before I let you go for this month. Carbon has a
total of six electrons; boron, five; and nitrogen, seven. If two
carbon atoms combine (C-C), they have twelve electrons
altogether. If a boron atom and a nitrogen atom combine (B-N)
they also have twelve electrons altogether.

It is not surprising, then, that the combination of boron and
nitrogen, or “boron nitride” has properties very much like that of
graphite, (though boron nitride is white rather than black and does
not conduct electricity). Boron nitride is made up of hexagons in
which boron and nitrogen atoms alternate at the comers, and from
these hexagons, stacks of tessellations are built up.

If boron nitride is subjected to the h^h-temperature,
high-pressure combination, its atoms also take up the adamantine
arrangement. The result is a denser and harder form of boron
nitride; a form called “borazon.” (The “-azon” suffix comes from
“azote,” and old name for nitrogen.)

Borazon (again, not surprisingly) is almost as hard as diamond.
In fact, it has an important advantage over diamond in being
non-inflammable. It can be used at temperatures where diamond
would combine with oxygen and disappear.

Borazon may therefore well replace diamond for industrial
uses, but somehow I don’t expect to see borazon engagement rings
for a while.

ABOUT THE COVER: Volcanic action or an atmosphere long ago frozen on
to its rocks could have formed the cave seen here on the enigmatic planet
Pluto— outpost of the Solar System unless the existence of “Planet X” is
confirmed. The icicle-like structures, once formed as the temperature
dropped, would remain unchanged for aeons. We are looking across a waveless
lake of liquid methane; such a surface could account for the fact that Pluto
seems to be smaller than the calculations which led to its discovery in 1930
suggested. We may be seeing a point reflection of the Sun in a smooth globe,
instead of the true diameter. The Sun appears as a star-like point, but still 100
times as bright as a full Moon. Painting by David Hardy from CHALLENGE
OF THE STARS by David A. Hardy and Patrick Moore, Mitchell Beazley,
1972 (to be published in the U.S. by Rand McNally).

One of Zenna Henderson's stories about 'The
People" was recently done on TV /with some success
according to our man in front of the tube,

Baird Searles. This is not a People story, but it
retains the distinctive qualities which have
gained Mrs. Henderson such a devoted following.

Thrumthing and Out

by ZENNA

I SHOULD HAVE REPORTED
the Spill the second i found it.
I felt a cold clutch of terror
when I saw it— back in a comer
of Section LL, halfway up
YDN, about where the wall
changes color. A Spill meant a
Breach— an incursion of Out! In
all my dreams I had never really
believed that this could ever
happen— and certainly not to
me— to actually find a Breach—
though this was exactly what all
my training as a Greenclad was
supposed to prepare me for. My
hand should have flovm auto-
matically to my belt alarm. By
now Repair should be swarm-
ing—

So why didn’t I report it?
Maybe because it was so small?
Only about two handfuls of
brown granular substance— if I
had dared gather it up to
measure it. But some disastrous
Spills have started pinpoint.
Maybe because it was so quiet?

HENDERSON

So was the Spill that killed
every breathing thing in Section
YL, a hundred years or so ago.
No, after searching myself for a
long time, I’ve finally decided. I
didn’t report it because it was
Mine.

It’s only been in the last few
months that I have begun to
realize that everything is Town.
Nothing is Mine— nothing of my
own. Of course I’ve known this
all my life. Of course no
individual owns anything. We
possess when we need. Even
though we say my quarters, my
bed, my coat, we know it’s
really Ours. And if we have a
need, we fill it wherever we find
the item available, being sure,
of course, that we do not
deprive another capriciously.
But for it always to have been
so and to come as a sudden
realization, are two different
things.

So, as I crouched there,

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

132

staring at the Spill, I vividly
realized— of all Town, no
one— no one else knew! No one
else had seen! No one else at all,
at all! This was Mine! And if
Mine, then I must touch to
possess. Quickly, before I could
reason, I put my hand out and
flatly pressed the Spill. My
hand snatched away and, for a
breath-span, I saw the shadowy
print of my fingers and my
palm. Then there was a shift, a
movement. I winced back. My
hand print was gone. And now,
surely, there were three hand-
fuls of the brown granules
instead of two, and the new
in-move had brought a finer
greyish, substance with it.

I waited, unbreathing, for
the whole of Section LL to
crack, to give way and
irretrievably breach Town. I
stared, half hypnotized, until I
thought I could actually distin-
guish the irregular outlines of
the small breach in the wall,
behind the granules— a breach
perhaps no larger than my
thumb. The powdery granules
settled again, and a sudden
thrust of light from the hole
made every granule cast long,
ominous shadows. Panic-strick-
en, I pushed my hand towards
the Spill and the light.
Fleetingly I saw the pink flesh
of my fingers filtering the light.
Then my hand was dark. There
were no shadows, no light— only
the greyish brown Spill.

Perhaps I had stared too
long. Perhaps my eyes had
made illusive light of their own.
Because how cquld light come
from Out and not damage?

I swallowed and stood up
stiffly. I glanced at my
watch— my work watch, marked
with no frivolous hours, but
only Duty, Change and Release.
It was in the orange Shift
Change sector. TOth a sinking
feeling I realized. Shift change.
Someone else would come—
Well, the Spill had been Mine.
For a little while. Now the next
Green along the catwalk would
see the Spill and report it with
much noise and excitement. I
clutched the railing and looked
down, down into the shadowy
depths below me. I couldn’t see
the bottom. I could see the
curvature far to my left but not
to my right. I couldn’t see the
curve above. Rebelliously I
thought— in all this creation, all
this Town, why couldn’t I
conceal this one tiny place?
This hand-span of Mine.

Then I remembered. This
was my first shift this year in
this sector. I had found a heap
of anonymous clutter pushed
across the catwalk, cutting off
this section. I had had to clear
the walk, then round the
structural element before find-
ing the Spill. Whoever had been
duty in the period before
Transfer had been slouching the
job, not scanning the Wall inch

THRUMTHING AND OUT

133

by inch as required. Well, then—

I pushed the clutter back
across the catwalk. With a sense
of betraying, I saw how easy it
was to go on by and not bother
with this short jog of the walk.
I was uneasy because I had so
nearly passed it myself without
noticing it.

I had no time to brood over
it. The flick of the section lights
indicated the shift change was
on his way. I rubbed my guilty
hand down the side of my
uniform, fished the symbolic
key out of its holster and had it
ready to pass along to my relief.
I tightened my jaws against the
inevitable. According to the
Roster, Gillyun was my relief.
And knowing Gillyun—

I saluted and, extending the
key, said, “Secure.” Gillyun
sketched an excuse for a salute
and took the key carelessly.
“Vigilance,” he said, his eyes
mocking me. “Come, come.
Corolla, lovely child! Blush for
me!”

His laughter followed me as,
blushing furiously, and deliber-
ately slowing my steps to
conceal any suggestion of flight,
I turned my back and left. I
” disliked Gillyun’s eyes and
voice almost as much cis I did
the impudent curl of his
beginning whiskers! He’s one of
those odious creatures who
start belaboring sex differences
as soon as he finds out there are
any! Well, at least I wouldn’t

have to worry about his finding
my Spill. In all probability he
had put the clutter there
himself to cut his patrol
distance. And whoever followed
him was just as bad. GiUyun is a
slack, slouchy worker, a dis-
grace to the Order of Green-
dads. I wished his transfer
schedule had coincided with
mine— then he wouldn’t still be
around.

That evening. Sepal, my best
friend, and I went down to the
Recreation Square. The Experi-
mentalists were there from
Music Division — which is a
Secondary, of course. They are
trying out different instruments
that they have built from
Archive pictures— hand instru-
ments— for making music— I
mean raw, not even program-
med. And some of the weird
effects they get from even
weirder looking instruments is
droU! How they labor, bending
so intent and sober over those
collections of wires and wood
and twisted metal— and the
squeaking, squacking, blaring
results— well, it’s really more-so!

Sepal was fascinated by one
instrument that consisted of
wires stretched over a roundish,
flatish box of wood, and she
lingered after the concert to get
a closer look at it— or the
ginger-whiskered fellow who
played it. I wandered off
through the crowd to my
favorite seat near the Memory

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

134

Arch. I kicked off my sandals
and flexed my toes. They didn ’t
like the thongs that circled each
of them, then joined over my
insteps. The turf was pleasantly
warm underfoot, and the cool
air moved pleasantly over my
face. I like the Memory Arch. If
you can remember your his-
tory, you can pick out the life
of Town on that arch, right up
to where the present blankness
begins. And what person in
Town has never dreamed of
having the next spot on that
bright curve? But that night the
thought was less than warm to
me. My eyes sought out the
place, too far above for me
actually to see, where one of
our family had been so
honored.

We are a long, proud line, we
Greenclads— my father and his
father and his father before
him— stretching back, so they
say, to that dim long ago when
the order of Greenclads was
first commissioned. We have
always been proud of the
responsibility that took them—
and now us-^aily so close to
death and disaster to protect
Town from death and disaster.
In the past, many Greens have
given their lives in the line of
duty. We have stories, not only
of our own family, of the
heroism and unselfishness of
those who died. Our family has
small plaque, a tiny copy of the
figure on the Memory Arch. It

shows our man, his face twisted
away from the hissing, roaring
Spill that was blinding him as
he pressed his body into the
breach long enough for Repair
to arrive. And not all Spills have
been noted in history. Not all
heroes are known— the many
unsung who have done their
duty so faithfully. So why
hadn ’t 1 reported the Spill?

I stubbornly twisted away
from the discomfort of the
thought and went back to look
for Sepal, She was leaning on
the edge of the platform,
looking adoringly up at the
musician who was sitting on the
edge of the platform, looking
adoringly down at her as they
both ignored the instrument on
the floor beside him.

I sighed patiently. Some
day! Some day Sepal would
prove immune to any likely
male — then— well, I guess then I
would worry!

I picked up the instrument
and held it across me. I flipped
my fingers across the strings. He
had plucked them gingerly
between thumb and forefinger.
I liked my thrum better than
the plok-plok he had produced.
I shifted my fingers at the
narrow end of the box and
strummed again. The tone had
changed. The musician’s head
jerked up and his eyes left
Sepal’s.

“What did you do?” he
demanded.

THRUMTHING AND OUT

135

I almost dropped the instru-
ment in my astonishment. “I
didn’t hurt it,” I said defensive-
ly. “I only-”

“Show me! Show me!” the
fellow demanded. “Do it
again!”

So I strummed. And shifted
my fingers. And strummed
again. And had the instrument
snatched from me. The fellow
bent, engrossed, over the thing,
strumming and shifting—

Sepal drew a long, exasper-
ated breath, her lips tightening
as she glared at me. She released
the breath explosively through
her nose and stalked away. I
followed her, my eyes rolled up
patiently. Now she’d pout for
an hour or so. Well, could I help
it if I had short-circuited a
likely setup for her again? She’s
another who’s fascinated by sex
differences. Oh, yawn! And she
and Gillyun can’t stand each
other!

The Spill was still there. It
could have been discovered and
reported. It could have been a
hdlucination in the first place.
But it was neither. It was
there— and it was larger! I knelt
beside it. It was a dark,
wet-looking brovm now,
though, and as I watched, a
brown wetness slid thinly across
its surface and crawled toward
me. I jerked back, startled, but
the curl wound itself into a
little puddle. The reflection of

the overhead lights scribbled
across it before it stopped
completely. I smiled at myself.
“It’s only water,” I told myself
comfortingly. “Only water
colored by the Spill!” I reached
out my hand with the compul-
sion to sign it again with my
touch. I hesitated. A Spill. It
might not be water. It might be
a substance that would eat my
hand to the bone. It might be a
contagion that would decimate
Town— after / was dead. My
hand hovered— hesitated— and
then I touched the Spill firmly.
There. Mine. Signed Mine with
my hand print. And my hand
was signed by the Spill — with
the semiliquid brownness that
emphasized every line in my
hand. Then light came through
the breach— not a thin pencil of
light as before, but a blare of it,
bluish-white and intense like a
sudden full note from one of
those archival instruments. But
this light didn’t squawk off into
noise as the instruments usually
did. The noise! Here it followed
the quick light, overlapping it,
even, a deep vibrating noise
that— again my only analogy
was that concert— the huge,
cylindrical section that had
only one note, a deep throb
that could trick you into
thinking you had another heart
beating up against you instead
of inside you. I had another
heart right then, too, throbbing
madly in my throat as I

136

scrambled back away from the
Spill and hastily jumbled the
junk back across the walk.

By shift change, my hand
had dried and I could brush the
brown off.

Gillyun arrived. We saluted.
“Secure,” I reported, extending
the key. He took it. “Vigi-
lance,” he yawned. “Well,
Corolla, my little flower face,”
he grinned. “You must have
fascinations of which I know
nothing!”

“Oh?” I moved to slip past
him.

“Not so fast, my pretty,” he
said, his hand on my arm
detaining me. “You quite
caught the fancy of one of the
Experimentalists at last night’s
concert. We dorm together.
Well, same dorm block, any-
way. He’s in the Math wing.
Music’s his Secondary. He drove
us mad last night, alternately
scratching at that thing he tries
to make music from, and
singing your praises. Neither
performance could be called
musical. He asked me to tell
you he’d be by Memory Arch
this evening if you’d like to
hear what he’s done with your
idea.”

“Thank you for the mes-
sage,” I said neutrally.

He sighed and shook my arm
a little before he released me.
“Such an outrush of emotion,”
he mocked. “Now if it were
that Sepal—”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“Vigilance,” I said, and
slipped past him. He followed
closely behind me Jilong the
walk, though his sector was the
other way.

“Such unsuspected talents,”
he said, breathily, against the
back of my neck. “Though I
suppose you former Logikids
are full of unplumbed depths.”
I flicked my feet just enough to
interrupt the walking rhythm,
and he stumbled a step or so on
the backs of my heels. He
grabbed my shoulder, halting
me to steady himself. “Never-
theless, who would have sus-
pected musical talent in a
Green?”

I looked back at him and
something in my look turned
him off. He flushed slightly
above his cheek whiskers and
let go of me. His eyes fell.
“Such a grubby-handed Green,
too!” His grin was full grown
again. “Vigilance,” he said and
turned back to his sector. I
scrubbed my hand down my
side £^ain. It was grubby. But I
had turned him off!

The Experimentalist was
there by Memory Arch when
Sepal and I arrived that evening.
Sepal’s welcome expanded as it
always does in a m^e presence,
and quite overshadowed me.
But this time the male only
flicked his teeth at her and
turned to me. Sepal’s astonish-
ment amused me, and I was
smiling as she turned away with

THRUMTHING AND OUT

137

a swish of ruffles. I cleared my
face when I realized that the
fellow was looking at me.

“Look!” he said hastily,
taking my elbow and steering
me to a narrow path leading
back to Archives. His other
hand clutched the instrument
that had to trail behind him
because of the narrowness.
“Look!” He pushed me down
to sit on the curve of a concrete
sculpture. “I’ve been working
unsanely, unsanely. I think I’m
getting it— only— well, look!”
And he cradled the instrument
across himself and began to
strum and to hum along with it.
He deepened the pulse of the
rhythm, and I found myself
flicking my toe to its insistence.

“Look!” he said, “My
fingertips are gone and I can’t
get a melody, but look—”

Very softly he sang and the
strums changed to cradle the
melody and surround the words
£ind underline the rhythm. It
made a Thing out of that
worn-out old song everyone
sings at Sings—

I am my love’s and she is mine.

She causes all my life to shine.

She has my heart— we’ll never part.
For she is mine— is mine— is mine—

“It goes,” I admitted to him.

“It goes.” A breathy gust of
laughter flicked. “Yes, it goes,
but look! My fingertips are
bleeding and I can’t get a
melody.”

“Can’t you use something to

strum with until your fingers
get well?” I asked. “And do
you need a melody? Singers
carry a melody. The tapes carry
melodies. Why can’t you go on
and just— strum around the
melody?” I

“Just strum.” Again the
breathy, brief laugh. “With j

something else—” !

“Yes,” I said. I flicked
mentally over myself, then I , |
flexed the metal clip on one of ;

my shoes and took it off.
“Here, use this.”

He did and it sounded the
same to me, but he choked over
“resonance” and “vibrancy”?
and looked at me as though I
were programmed for miracles.

“Might as well take the j

other, too.” I bent to shut out I

the sight of his slightly
lack-minded, open-mouthed
wonderment. I took off the
other clip, and he took it so
eagerly that he pinched my
finger against it.

“Look!” he said, licking his
lips. Then he firmed his mouth
and straightened himself. “Real-
ly,” he grinned, “I’m not
usually so besotted, but you
keep answering questions that
have no answers. Bet you were
a Logikid.”

“Still am,” I grinned back at
him. “You don’t get cured of it
and I guess you automatically
use the skills—”

“But a Logikid and— and a
Green!” he wondered.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

138

“It’s my family,” I said,
flushing, and hating myself for
flushing. “It was only natur-
al—” Then suddenly I was very
much in earnest. “Do you know
of anything else that would be
more-so?” I asked him. “Some-
thing really and truly more-so?”

. “Well, we — ” his eyes
wavered away from mine.
“More-so is what you hardly
can find any more of any more.
Well, anyway sometimes I think
we Experimentalists are an
unsane bunch trying to make
music when zdl we have to do to
get music is to flick a tape. But
tapes are all the same! All the
same! All so predictable that no
matter which you play, you can
predict it down to the last
worn-out ending. We had a
game. Given the first three
notes, write the whole— and we
could. So we thought maybe if
we could go back to instru-
ments. If we could make
unprogrammed music. One time
they must have. Someone must
have programmed all our music
once— anew. So I took this from
a picture— an instrument on one
of the tapes that are destructing
now of age and disuse. And I
made this— this replica. Only
how can you tell? Look. It has
these things sticking out at the
end. Do they have a function or
are they just ornamental? And
look. There’s a hole into the
box under the strings— well,
wires, but they’re called strings.

Or should they be string? What
kind? Of what? But the hole.
Does it have to be? Does the
shape of it have anything to
do?— look, this design around
the edge. Does it function? Or
is it decoration? It’s unsane. It
really is.” He slumped on his
segment of the sculpture.

“But more-so?” I asked.

“But more-so?” His laughed
jerked. “Absorbing. Absorb-
ing.”

“Did the picture show the
wires going to the knobs?” I
asked. “There are as many
knobs as wires.”

“Strings,” he said. “It wasn’t
very plain.” He frowned at the
insteument.

“What do you call it?” I
asked. “And yourself.”

“Oh. Oh, well. I’m Stem, of
Music,” he said. “And you?”

“Corolla,” I said, ‘‘of the
Greens. ”

His instinct was a little too
fast for his manners, this time.
Now it was that he ritually
shrank back, his palm flat to me
for a moment— all a harlcback to
when Greenclads used to be
almost outcasts because their
nearness to a Breach or a Spill
might pass contamination on to
anyone they touched. Town
people used to look at Greens
half in admiration, half in
terror. To work so close to
destruction! It brought the
thought of death too close!
Perhaps only a breath, a touch

THRUMTHING AND OUT

away! The ritual is dying out,
exhausted by time and absence
of emergency; but, as now, it
crops out in unexpected places.
My chest suddenly clenched
again, remembering the unre-
ported Breach— the Breach, not
only of Town, but of the sacred
trust of the Greens.

“I blew up a copy of the
picture,” said Stem. “If you’d
care to come to Archives.” He
was hurrying me along the
narrow pathway.

“But—” I protested, then
shrugged and went along.

Archives was shadowy and a
little frightening after hours.
Stem lead me expertly among
display cases and up stairs and
around and around, up and
dovm spirals of clanging steps,
before we finally emerged into
a cluttered room— whether up-
stairs or down, I couldn’t tell.
We bent together over the
grainy, grey enlargement.

“They connect,” I said.
“Here, hold the print up. Now
look at it quickly. Just a fast
glance. See? Each line termin-
ates at a knob. And the knob is
flat as though to fit— to fit a
finger and thumb. Turn to
loosen or turn to tighten. Stem,
when you change your left
hand on the strings, the sound
changes.”

“There’s a correlation be-
tween string length and the rate
of vibration, so the tone— math-
ematically— that’s why this—”

139

“Then those knobs could
change the length or the
correlation much more that just
a touch. To make them all
match. I mean make regular
intervals up and down— for
music—”

His mouth was slightly open
again as he drank in my words,
his face bemused. I flushed and
moved uneasily. “What do you
call it?” I looked down and
flicked my finger across the
strings. The thrum aroused him,

“Call it. Oh-oh, call it.” He
blinked and grinned. “I haven’t
called it yet, but I’ll think of
thrumthing!” We winced to-
gether and laughed together—
not knowing we had just added
a new word to the language!

Then he was hovering back
over his papers. “Look, where
shall I start? Let’s see.
Mathematically this first
string—”

I was gone, as far as he was
concerned. I waited impatiently
for a few minutes with no
sound in all of Archives except
the scurry of his pencil and an
irregular mumble from him.
Finally I said, “I think I’ll go
back to Memory Arch.” No
reply. “I’m going back,” I said
loudly.

“Back?” He didn’t even look
up. “Sure. Go back,”

Well! I caught myself flounc-
ing out as Sepal might have, but
unflounced in a hurry in the
eeriness of the shadowy halls of

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

140

Archives. I scurried up and
down and dizzily around and
around until I had passed the
same bent stair-support three
times, twice going up and once
going down. I huddled down on
a step and considered. I knew I
couldn’t find Stem again. I had
two choices. Keep on looking
for the exit or just sit and wait
to be found. In the morning.
Late for Duty. Hungry, tired,
and, most annoying, in growing
need of a Services room.

That was the deciding factor.
I got up and clattered down to
the landing. No more stairs and
halls for me. Doors, after this.

Some doors opened reluc-
tantly. Twice ghostly things
wound around my face as I
went through creaky doors.
Then doors began to open more
readily and, oh, joy! finally a
green-rimmed Services Room
door!

When I came out, I looked
around me with a much more
relaxed feeling. Now, where in
Archives was I? I hadn ’t been in
the building very often since
Customs and Traditions classes
in Early School. This room was
tapes, I peered at a shelf sign.
“Steel— Internal Stresses—”

The next room was a viewing
room, dust deep on the
adult-sized seats and on the
floor. The next, an exhibition
hall, the exhibits wall lined with
small models to be projected. I
picked up one— a tiny globe

with details too small for me to
discern. I balanced it thought-
fully in my hand. Why not? It
was after hours, but who’d
care? Who came to Archives
after hours except unsanities
like Stem and Me? It would be
Different to do and Differents
are as hard to come by as
more-so’s.

I went back to the projec-
tion room and, blowing the
dust off the projector, I
inserted the exhibit and flipped
the switch I heard a whirr and
click and a disgruntled clank or
two from the projector while I
dusted a chair and sat down.
Light lanced through the
darkness.

And God said— the voice
filled the room— Let the earth
bring

forth grass, the herb yielding
seed, and the fruit tree yielding
fruit after his kind, whose
seed is in itself, upon the earth
and it was so.

The screen was alive with—
things. They were illustrating
the words— grass, herbs, seeds,
trees— all those unsense words—
but beautiful! beautiful!

And the earth brought forth
grass and herb yielding seed
after

his kind and the tree yielding
fruit whose seed was in itself,
after his kind: and God saw -
that it was good.

And again the screen filled
with blueness all above and

THRUMTHING AND OUT

greenness— all below— and bril-
liant colors— scattered among—
fastened to green— or fluttering
slowly or darting swiftly in the
blueness. What was it? Where
was it? When was it? The voice
again—

And God said. Behold, I
have given you every herb
bearing seed

which is upon the face of all
the earth and every tree in the
which

is the fruit of a tree yielding
seed: to you it shall be for
meat.

Again the pictures, this time
with animals moving among the
green— and with blue flowing
across the screen between
brown— I scrambled to the
projector. I fumbled the reverse
switch, ignoring the mute. The
projector squawked backwards
to— 6c for 7nea^— then I slowed
it, stepping it dovm far past
normal. The projection crept
and crept until the blue flowed
between brown. I flicked the
stop button. There was a curl of
blue, wrapped around a mound
of brown. If you saw the blue
as brown, too, and reduced the
size of the mound, there it was!
My Breach— my Spill! Then all
that blue flowing was water— all
the brown was— was— I groped
for an applicable word from the
voice, earth. That’s what the
voice had said. Upon the Earth.
The brown of my Spill was
earth, but my water was

141

different. It was brown. And all
those up-springing green things
were anchored in earth, growing
up towards the blue that
couldn’t be water because it
was so up. All those grass and
herbs and trees!

Where was this? When was
it? I scrambled back to the
exhibits room. With difficulty I
deciphered the ornate script
above the exhibits shelves. ERE-
HISTORY I-IN THE BEGIN-
NING-GOD.

Oh. I felt something up-
springing and bright drain out
of an essential part of me. I
remembered. From Early
School. Nothing more-so at all.
They don’t bring the classes to
Archives any more. No one
seems to care how things
started. Things are. Things have
been Things will be. Always no
change. A shudder shook me.
Forever and ever the same?

The other theories. The Big
Bang— the— but wait. This Be-
ginning couldn’t be for Town.
Where was the earth from
which things sprang? The
imiform turf that is everywhere
underfoot outside the buildings
isn’t brown. Colors change
according to some time
schedule programmed with
Town. And, reaching back to
Early School, those up-reaching
green things grew. They
changed and yielded seed and
fruit and— where did they go?
Nothing grows in our turf.

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

142

I started slowly back to
Dorm. Early School was so long
ago, especially with all the
repetition of the days between,
the days between, the days— My
steps quickened with the words
until I was running down the
grey corridors, heeiring my feet
repeat and repeat and repeat—
the days between, the days
between, past the grey blur of
closed doors and the grey blur
of past days.

I slid out of the side door
and heard it sigh shut behind
me. I looked up at the arching
glow overhead. At least I’ve
been told it arches— on duty
I’ve seen—

Suddenly such a pang struck
me that I thought I had actually
been wounded! What was Out?
Why was In ?

My mind was dissolving
against the idea of anything
being Out. How could there not
be encircling walls? What could
possibly be where nothing was?
Never in my life had I felt so
near to becoming unsane. And
then my staggering mind caught
on the Spill. And the wet curl.
And I relaxed down to my
toenails. Of course. There was
something Out. And I rested
myself against the memory of
my hand print in the Spill— in
the Earth.

As shift followed shift, I
kept my secret of the Spill.
Each duty period I knelt at
least once before the Earth as

before an altar— and it was as
huge and mysterious and
satisfyingly unsatisfying to me
as the altar in the Assembly in
the center of Town where
people used to crowd on their
traditional worship days and
observe their various rituals. We
used to— our family— on a
Twenty -fourth. I only remem-
ber a Twenty-fourth and A
Child Is Born and— why, yes!
On Earth as it is— on Earthl
Isn’t that an odd worship?

Sometimes the Spill was
flooded with light. Sometimes
the water ran. And sometimes it
was just a brown Spill under the
lights.

Stem had redesigned the
Strumthing— such a silly name I
told him and told him— so the
knobs controlled the tension of
the strings and, with the
resultant orderly progression of
the tones, he had learned to
play it most eimazingly well, so
much so that Production called
him in and began to issue
reproductions. The new More-
so for the moment was
Strumthings and trying to write
words to go with the awkward,
unprogrammed tunes, or rather,
collections of notes everyone
was becoming passionate about.

Stem even had one he called
Out, though no one liked it
because it sounded so weird and
no one likes to think of Out. He
blamed me. He wrote the thing
after I told him about the

THRUMTHING AND OUT

projection. He had learned to
play odd half-steps with the
notes, and they made this tune
unresolved and as though it
ended with a question mark,
and somehow it fitted the Out
feeling.

He remembered the projec-
tion. “All that blue and green
and earth is Out,” he said. “We
had that in Middle School. I
guess they dropped it just
before your age group got to
that level— or were you in
Logikid classes by then?”

“Out?” My stomach curled
with the thought. “But Spills
are when Out comes in. How
can blue and green and growing
be where such disastrous Spills
come from?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Stem.
“It must have changed. God
saw it was good. Once,
anyway.”

“God?” I asked.

“The Beginning,” he said.
“They said God meant the
Beginning in this theory.”

“But if God saw and
talked—” I started. “Maybe
God was before the Beginning.
A separate—”

“You Logikids never can
simply accept,” said Stem,
flicking his fingers over the
strings.

“If Out was good once,
something happened to it. It
stopped being good. That’s why
there’s Town and Out. I don’t
think they ever told us why.”

143

He made the weird sorrowing
sounds on the strings and half
sang, half said.

Where is the blue?

Where is the green?

Where is the growing?

Out.

Out in the bad.

Out in the death,

Out in the poison—

Out.

“But,” I protested. “It’s not
all—” I caught my lower lip
between my teeth.

“All what?” Stem’s eyes
were sharp.

“All the same length lines,” I
said casually. “Only one word
in a line? Awkward program-
ming.”

He didn’t quite accept my
glib explanation, but he was
willing to be drawn into a safe
argument. “That’s the whole
idea. Anything except what
sounds programmed—”

Next duty period, as I knelt
by the Spill, I suddenly leaned
forward and pushed my hand
into the featureless heap. And
pushed. And pushed, balancing
myself with my other hand as I
watched my knuckles, then my
wrist, then my forearm disap-
pear into the earth. Then my
out-of-sight fingers moved in
nothing. The nothing of Out. I
held my breath. I felt some-
thing brush across my palm. I
clenched my fist and yanked it

iiu

back through the earth, feeling
something ripping away as I
pulled, and something staying. I
opened my fingers slowly. My
palm was speckled with black.
What was this I had brought
into Town from Out? I turned
my hand and pressed it to the
earth firmly. Then my palm was
cleansed of the black speckles. I
smoothed the Spill so the
speckles were out of sight and
signed it again with my palm.

Next day I couldn’t reach
my palm print. The Spill had
enlarged so much I couldn ’t
reach across it, though I could
still see the mark of my hand.
The increase had nudged in
under it. And the Spill was wet
again, so much so that the
water was reaching the edge of
the catwalk and dripping down
into the shadowy endlessness
beneath me! I looked at it with
a slump of despair. How could I
possibly conceal it any longer? I
glanced at my duty watch. Oh,
no! Frantically I shuffled past
the concealing clutter and,
running as fast and as soundless-
ly as I could, arrived at the
change point barely before
Gillyun. My still-panting breath
jerked the word as I said,
“Secure.”

“Vigilance,” he replied.
“Say, you’ve been running! Or
is it your ungovernable passion
for me—”

“I was delayed,” I said
neutrally. “I had to hurry.”

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

“Delayed?” He looked at me
in amazement, then grinned
incredulously. “You mean you
actually patrol? You walk the
course? You actually cover the
area? ”

It was my turn for astonish-
ment. “Of course! It’s our
duty ! ”

“Duty!” He pouted it
disgustedly off his mouth.
“Foul footsteps! Anyone who
has any know at all— well, my
roost isn’t ten yards from here.
My tapes, my nibbles, my
sleeping place— more-so ! But
more-so! And, I might add, my
brainless Logikid— not always
lonely is my roost. If you
would deal a different hand,
maybe even you—”

“Dereliction of duty!” I
gulped, my face stiff with the
shock. “You-”

“Me? Listen, chucklehead,
you’re the one out of step. Go
on! Try to find the duty officer
to report me. Nothing’s ever
happened and nothing ever will.
Just try to find the guy! And if
he’s slightly missing, you might
try asking Sepal. I hear that
they—”

I turned on my heel and left,
not quite sure my knees would
bend the right direction. I
couldn’t grasp what I’d heard.
How could it be that Greens
could be so lax— and if it
weren’t true? It couldn’t be
true. How could Gillyun joke
about such a subject? How

THRUMTHING AND OUT .

could he so dishonor—? Of
course it wasn’t true. But
Sepal? She wasn’t a Green. How
could she possibly come into
the area? Duty officer? No one
watching? No one but me?
What if there was a Breach— a
Spill— and it went unreported?

Oh, but—!

I held my face stiffly in
front of the seething upset
inside me until I was almost
back to Dorm. Then a sharp,
silver glimpse of Memory Arch
across the square broke me. I
turned blindly into the first
door that would receive me
and, folding up on the dim
stairs, I wept into my lap until I
felt tears warmly wet on my
knees clear through my clothes.

Finally outside sounds reach-
ed me again, and my tears
stopped. I drew my breath
raggedly. Someone was coming
down the steps to the door
beyond me. I pressed myself
against the wall, my face turned
away.

“Corolla?” I didn’t want to
recognize the voice. “Corolla!”
Stem folded up on the step
beside me. “Corolla?” I felt his
hand hesitate on my shoulder.

Well, my tears hadn’t all
been spent, because they
flowed copiously as I practical-
ly threw myself upon Stem.
One of my hands banged
against the Strumthing he had
slung across his back by some
strap arrangement.

145

Finally I got vocal and
poured out the incredible story
of Gillyun while Stem and I
shredded a number of tissues
trying to keep my face dry.
Then we sat silently for a
moment on the steps.

“It could be true,” said
Stem. “Things— things in gen-
eral seem to be wobbling as if
they were thinking of stopping.
Something is running down.
Sometimes I truly believe that
we could all just sit for a week,
not taking any duty at all, and
it wouldn’t matter a whit to
Town. That’s why—” He moved
restlessly, shifting his Thrum-
thing. I heard its soft thrum in
the shadowy stillness.

“But, on the other hand — ”
he stood up briskly and helped
me to my feet. “That Gillyun ’s
a thoroughgoing bad piece of
news. Maybe only he and a
couple of others like him are
laxing. As long as Town has
Greens like you, no Breach or
Spill can sneak up on us
unheralded!”

I wailed and fled, my tears
gushing again, leaving behind
me Stem and his astonishment.

For a long time I didn’t go
near my Spill. I took my duty,
performed it, turned over the
key correctly and didn’t allow
my thoughts to deviate, even
off duty. I spent much of my
off-duty with Stem and the
other Experimentalists, listen-

146

ing to all the odd sounds they
were bringing forth in the name
of music. And some of it was
surprisingly good, especially if
you could hear willingly the far
side of the programmed.

But one evening in the tiny
room they fancied for its
acoustics, Stem, in the unpat-
terned melange of sounds and
rhythms, began softly on his
Strumthing.

Where Is the blue?

Where is the green?

Where is the growing?

J Out!

And, quite suddenly, I
couldn’t bear it. I left the tight
cacophony of the little room in
Archives and started aimlessly
back to Dorm. I went under
Memory Arch— quickly, eyes
averted— then slowed down and
stopped at the door of the
Assembly. I slipped in impul-
sively. The low murmur of
voices slowed my steps. One of
the chapels— no, several— were
in use. Voices, alone or in
concert, crossed each other, as
the sounds of the musical
instruments had in Archives.
Why! I thought. People still
come to Assembly! The same as
when I was a child!

I moved soundlessly toward
candle flames, my feet changing
directions twice before I reach-
ed the right place and sat down
softly in the same seat I used to
sit in so long ago. When I was

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

Home. When Dorm was a life
too far ahead for anything but
dreaming. When A Child Is
Borii. When Mother— I clenched
my meriiory tightly around
Mother. Only by never looking
had I been able to keep her
unchanged. I held closely the
memory of her going to Clinic,
smiling her wasted smile,
waving her ghostly hand,
promising to be back. But she
never came. And when the
official notice came, I tore it
into as many tiny pieces as
possible. “Name removed from
population rolls. Reason:
Death.” Bitterly I knew I’d
never really know. Whether
she had died, or had been
“removed.” Stories go around
about Clinic— and population
rolls. Father had gone long
before I knew questions could
be asked— that were never
answered. I hadn’t asked about
Mother. She was gone.

But now I could remember
all of the “on earth” because
the tiny group of people
between irie and the candles
were chanting it softly. I slid to
my knees and let memory clasp
my hands and bow my head,
but I had no voice for the
words until Amen.

Next duty period, I made
my first round as I always had.
When time came for the seconcT
one, I wiggled and squirmed
around and among the clutter
hiding my Spill. I caught my

THRUMTHING AND OUT

breath in a half scream. What
was wrong with my Spill? It
was big! It had spread and
spread! But that wasn’t the
terror of it! A part of the wall
had broken off and lay across'
an opening as wide as the length
of my arm. An opening half
filled with earth, and through
which light flooded strong and
bright— casting shadows of the
hand-high green that dotted the
brown Spill. Green reaching
up— reaching up— growing? the
—the green— my hand dotted
with black specks from my
clutching Out. Seed of its
kind— I slid to my knees and,
creeping gently forward, softly
touched the green. And it was
good!

I thought my heart would
burst with wonder. What could
I do? How could I stand it,
alone? But — what if it was death
growing hand-high and green?
What would happen now?
Would the green get bigger or
taller or wider or— or— ?

That night Stem and I sat by
the base of Memory Arch. He
had been strumming. Now he
spoke. “I’ve been wondering
about making these strings of
different material. I wonder—”

“Stem,” I clasped my hands
tightly palm to palm between
my knees. I was going to have
to give away what was Mine.
“Stem, I have some green
growing in the earth.”

147

“You have what?” Stem’s
mouth slacked open.

“I have an unreported Spill
in Section LL. I got seeds from
Out.” I felt a throb inside me.
Instead of emptying by giving
Mine away, I was filling! I was
growing! “I have green growing
in the earth of the Spill.”

“You have—” His eyes
widened and his hand flipped in
the old gesture against the
Greens. “You’ve flipped!”

“Maybe so, but I still have
it.” I jerked to my feet. “Come,
I’ll show you.”

“Me? In Green area—” he
protested.

“I go fo Archives,” I said, as
though it were anything like.
Then I cried, “Oh, Stem, it’s
true! It’s true! It’s growing all
green and cool and the light
from Out casts Ic shadows—”

The height frightened Stem.
The tightening of his hand on
mine as we stepped out of the
elevator told . me so. My
astonishment faded when I
remembered my first few times
up the tiny, fragile-seeming
catwalks and ladders that
looked penciled across the
immensity of the Wall. But I
had as little softness for him
now as they had had for me
then.

“Watch my shoulders,” I
said. “Don’t look anywhere but
at my shouldefs.” And I led
him to the cluttered corner. He
drew a deep breath when we

148

THRUMTHING AND OUT

slid behind a huge container
and lost the vastness around us.
He leaned weakly against this
shelter. “It’s— it’s different,” he
said, his shaking voice trying to
fill our silence. “I mean the
Wall.” His short breathy laugh
wavered. “It changes color.”

“Yes,” I said. “And my Spill
is right at the color change.” I
dragged him around the last of
the clutter— and waited for his
reaction

I had forgotten— forgotten
how long it had taken me to be
able to halfway accept the Spill
and the earth and even the
green— and the impact of it on
Stem came as a terrifying
surprise. He wasn’t even used to
the Wall— or being near it, let
alone being able to accept a
Spill without automatic panic.
All the old, persistent teachings
that flung his hand up
protectively against me as a
Green flooded back to him
now, and he shrank away from
me but had to cling, too, to the
only familiarity in the whole
experience.

“Oh, Stem!” I used both of
my hands to cover his white,
drawn face and his frantic eyes.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t even think!
Oh, Stem!” I turned his shaken
body away from the Spill and
back toward the walk. He was
so nearly in a state of collapse
that for a minute I was afraid I
couldn’t keep him from doub-
ling over the guard rail and

sliding down into the nothing-
ness below.

I finally blindfolded him
with my scarf and got him back
to the elevators and down the
elevators. Then, blindly stagger-
ing, freed of my scarf, he fled
slowly from me through a
green-rimmed Services door.

It was a long time before
Stem could talk about the Spill,
even uncomfortably. He would
start me talking about it, but
beads of sweat would cluster
above his eyebrows and his
breath would be ragged, his
hands clenched. Finally,
though, he was able to talk
about the brown, and the green
and the growing almost as easily
as I could, and he could listen
with no great discomfort. So we
talked— and speculated and
wondered.

“It’s been at least fifty
years,” he began one evening,
his fingers busy with finding
notes on his Thrumthing.

“Since what?” I asked,
trying to get a ting from the
little metal discs looped by cord
on my thumbs and forefingers.
Stem thinks they’re just rings—
ornaments— but only dancers in
the old pictures have them on. I
think they’re instruments of
some sort.

“Since the last reported
Breach,” said Stem. “At least
the last one I’ve been able to
find. It was on lower GF at the
very bottom. Water ran for

THRUMTHING AND OUT

several days until they sealed
the Breach. The water tested
neutral— just water.”

“How old is Town?” I asked,
suddenly wondering. ,

“Old?” Stem’s eyebrow lift-
ed. Then he called across the
noise and confusion of the
room. “Hi, Root! How old is
Town.”

“Who knows?” Root whack-
ed his small cylinder vigorously.
It split open with a whap and
laughter lapped around the
room. Root poked his stick into
the cylinder and lifted it up.
“Oh, weU!” he shrugged. “How
old from what? When Town
began, time started again.
Before Town—” He twirled the
cylinder reflectively. “Can’t
remember my prehistory.
Hmm— before Tovm— Oh, yes!
Time was measured from the
birth— from someone’s birth—”

“Birth,” I said thoughtfully.
“Bom. , A Child is born-”
Warmness crept in above my
diaphragm. Maybe our worship
%yas for the one who started
time— before Town. I had been
back to Assembly several times
but hadn’t yet found the time
pattern of worship. I must go
again—

“Why?” asked Root, then
turned away to his broken
instrument.

“Why?” asked Stem.

“Why?” My mind scrambled
back to our conversation. “Oh,
I wondered when Out became

149

bad. It must have been when
Town began— or Town must
have begun then—”

“Oh, I found a poem about
that, on one of the lyric tapes.
Can’t remember word for word,
but in essence it said, ‘We need
more room for garbage— throw
the people out’— I found out
‘garbage’ means uncycled dis-
cards—”

“Throw the people Out,” I
said reflectively, “Or In.”

“So either there haven’t
been any Breaches,” said Stem
as he tightened one of my metal
discs, “Or Gillyun is right and
Breaches are not being re-
ported. Or it doesn’t ’:.iatter any
more if there are Brea hes— ”

“Breaches?” An owlish face
popped up over Stem’s shoul-
der. “The accepted pronuncia-
tion is ‘britches’ and they were
the forerunners of our hosen— ”

The face went away and
Stem and I laughed. Then I
sobered. “We’ve got to be more
careful if we’re to keep the Spill
My Spill.”

“Then you stUl haven’t
told—” Stem was sober.

“No,” I said. “No, I haven’t
told.”

Sometimes I hurried to the
SpUl, fearing it would be gone.
Sometimes I went reluctantly,
afraid it might still be there.
But I ended up making my
rounds at breakneck speed and
spending the rest of the time

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

150

watching the green— and the
growing. I was fascinated by
knobs developing among the
green— knobs that got bigger
and bigger. And then one day
on one growing thing— plant, I
mean, Stem found out the
generic term for me— there was
a crumple of white! A knob had
split and folded back. I crept on
my stomach across the brown
until my nose almost touched
the white. The crumple was
smoothing out. Deep inside it
was yellow. The second day the
crumple had stiffened into
white rays all around the
yellow, and another crumple
was showing farther up the
plant.

That night I told Stem and
he strummed thoughtfully a
moment. Then he said, “I wish
I could tell Bract. He’s
passionate about growing
things. He found some tapes
recently that are called stop-
action, and he’s almost inco-
herent. He’s even prating about
getting seed exhibits out of
stasis in Archives and starting
his own growing. I don’t
suppose—”

“No,” I said, flushing.
“Because then I’d have to
report and explain the delay — ”

“He wouldn’t tell-”

“If he’s incoherent over a
tape, what would he do if he
saw for real?” I closed the
discussion.

Gillyun was getting more

and more insistent. Almost
every day I had to evade his
reaching hands.

“Foul footsteps!” he scowl-
ed once. “You don’t dodge
Stem! You don’t mind his
touching you!”

“I don’t even notice it,” I
said cooly. “And neither does
Stem.”

“Stupid Stem!” he said. I
only looked past his ear, and he
got redder and redder and
finally flung away from me
blindly, stumbling against the
guard rail, straightening and
leaving without even the cere-
monial exchange of “secured”
and “vigilance.”

Finally every plant on the
Spill was covered with the
unfolded white. And sometimes
there was air moving from the
Breach, and sometimes there
were small living things with
wings— but not the bright wings
of the Beginning, but noisy
little wings. The creatures
walked into the— the white— oh,
if only I dared ask Bract!— and
walked around and around
then went away again through
the Breach.

Then there came the time
when I sat there, so full of
happiness, so bursting with
delight over my Spill that I was
saying aloud to myself, ^T’ll
have to tell! I’ll have to
show — !” And it happened!

“Tell who?” I leaped convul-
sively and whirled.

THRUMTHING AND OUT

151

There was Gillyun! I glanced
frantically at my watch. Past
change time! I scrambled
toward Gillyun, hoping he’d
back away in front of me and
back around that container. But
he didn’t. He dodged past me
and tromped out into my Spill,
his blind feet smashing a plant.

“Well, well! What have we
here?” he mocked. “So you
have your little roost, too! So
shocked because I admitted I
didn’t waste time and energy
looking for something that will
never — ”

He broke off and looked at
the Spill. He clomped over to
the Wall. He bent toward the
Breach. For a long, quiet
moment everything was so still
that I could hear one of the
creatures in a white—

Then Gillyun was stumbling
back. “A Breach!” His voice
was horrified and choked. “A
Breach!” He strangled on his
own indrawn breath. “Report!”
he babbled. “Report!” He
fumbled for his belt alarm, the
color draining from his face.

“No!” I cried, throwing
myself against him and grabbing
his hand. “It doesn’t matter. It
won’t hurt!”

“Won’t hurt? A Breach!" His
voice cracked and he tried to
yank his hand free.

“It— it breached a long time
ago,” I confessed. “I’ve been
watching it—”

“And not reporting.” His

voice laid the statement out flat
in front of us, his breath
quieting. “A Green— CoroZZa of
the Greens. Proud, duty-bound
Corolla, not reporting a Breach!
Well, well, this gives to think—”
He reached back to the Spill
and crushed his hand over one
of the whites— small creature
and all— and yanking up the
plant, shoved past me back to
the walk.

“Too precious to touch, too
duty-true to lax, too everything
to track with me at all! But not
too anything to let a major
Breach go unreported—”

“Gillyun, Gillyun-” I fol-
lowed him, gasping, “don’t tell!
Don’t tell!”

“Oh, ho! Gillyun it is now!
No looking past my left ear!
Listen to your voice! No flat,
words only when necessary—”
Gillyun turned, his back pressed
to the guard rail, and grinned.
“Well, maybe not telling will be
more fun for me. Just what will
you exchange — ”

Then he flung up his hand
and roared! The plant clung to
his sleeve even as he shook his
hand frantically with a look of
pained astonishment on his
face He flung himself back.
Away from me. And— over — the
— rail—

I crouched down on the
catwalk and hid my eyes and
ears against my knees and under
my wrapping arms, but I heard
and saw and heard again his

152

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

horrified cry as he went over
and down— down— and nothing
below but the shadowy Nothing
below—

Finally life crept back into
me. I unfolded painfully. I
looked for the crushed white
that he had had in his hand. It
was gone. I found the small
creature tightly clenched upon
itself and all unmoving. I took it
up gently and in a sort of daze
carried it back to the Spill. I
put it in a white, but its legs
had no clinging now and it fell
out. I crouched there looking at
it until suddenly realization
came to me.

Gillyun was gone! Because
of me, he was gone! He had
fallen down— down — I shudder-
ed. Then coldness tightened on
my insides. Because of me the
population roll had been
altered. Without permission! I
had no right to alter the roll!
What would they do to me? To
Clinic? To Removal? To the
Cycler to be recycled?— And ,
when they found him and
traced back to where he had
fallen— what would they do to
me for dereliction of duty? Not
only altering the population
rolls without permission but
not reporting a major Breach—!
What did they do? In all my life
I’d never known anyone—

My terror drove me to my
feet. The looming of unknown
catastrophes sent me across the
Spill. The disbelieving revulsion

against what I had done sent me
stumbling to the Breach. And
the wild, lonely despair of the
utter outcast sent me through
the Breach — Out!

At first I just huddled
blindly, miserably against the
Wall, waiting for death, because
Out is death. Then, eyes closed,
I began to sample Out. Air was
moving softly over me, a warm,
good-smelling air. I could hear
the busy sounds of the little
creatures around me, and under
me was a softness— and— my
eyes flipped open. Surely under
me was wetness! I looked. I was
sitting on the edge of a flowing
water, so close to it that I was
crumpling one earth edge and
slowly sliding into the wetness.
As I pushed myself up and
back, one foot kicked into the
water and what had been clear
and beautiful, suddenly swirled
brown— and beautiful! I watch-
ed, fascinated, as the brown
went away and the clear,
shining blue— Blue? I gathered a
handful of water and searched
it before it dripped off my
elbows. It wasn’t blue! I looked
at the stream. Blue— yet the
under was brown.

And then my head lifted and
I looked up and up— forever!
Forever! No shadows of the
Over-wall— up into blue and
blue and blue! Until my neck
was tired, until billows of
greying whiteness swept across
the blue, I looked at it. Then

THRXJMTHING AND OUT

when the blue was gone, I
looked down at the flowing
water. Not blue. The water and
the above had been speaking
blue together —

Now like an explosion, Out
changed! The air was hot and
twisty and then suddenly cold
and heavy. The above was
billowing grey, then black, then
split across by brightness, too
bright for me ^to look. Then the
roar came that shook me even
into my bones. Then a flurry of
pellets hit me and stung. I saw
them bounce away, white and
hard, and melt away into wet
spots. A thin curtain of failing
wetness swept across me and
was gone

I shivered, hugging the Wall
with my back. What could I do?
Where could I go? Back In? Oh,
no! Oh, no! Across the flowing
water was a wall— a jumbled
disorderly wall of growing
things and heaped up earth.
Maybe among the larger plants
—but there would be creatures
among the plants— tiny ones
that, if you held them in your
hand, could make you roar and
fall. If so the tiny ones, what of
the larger ones?

Falling water swept across
me again. Slowly at first, stiff
with fear, shaken with terror, I
stood up and tried to leap the
flowing water, but at that
moment came the terrifying
sudden light again; this time the
explosive rumble came at the

153

same split moment, and the
falling water deluged me. At
fjrst I couldn't move. Then
convulsively I turned back to
the Breach. No! No! Not back
there! Whirling blindly, I fled
away from accusation and guilt
and punishment, toward the
unknown, so caught up in my
terror and the tumult that I
could never after remember
that flight.

When next I could think, I
was crouched against a hard
outcropping of earth that
arched over my head. Plants
waved in front of me and
prickled against my wet face. I
moved cautiously away from
the prickle— and leaped quickly
back again. I fished under me
and puUed out a sharp piece of
plant I had sat on.

And now darkness was
flowing in like water. Some
rheostat somewhere was func-
tioning. I couldn’t see the
growing things beyond me. I
couldn’t see the billowing grey
and black above. I couldn’t see
the earth curved over me. I held
my hands up and waved my
fingers. I couldn’t see them,
either! Was I blind? Had the
down-pouring waters blinded
me? I touched my eyes
fearfully— then jerked convul-
sively as the sudden brightness
split the darkness. Fear made
me cry out at the crash that
followed, but part of my cry
was relief. I could see! I wasn’t

154

blind! There had only been a
massive power failure. The
lights were out.

I can’t possibly count the
cold, wet, terrified centuries
that crept over me in the
darkness there, but sleep found
me finally, a sleep so exhausted-
ly heavy that it had no dreams.

The first consciousness I had
was cold, and a scurrying of
some sort of creature across my
outstretched legs that were too
stiff and cold to draw up as I
willed them to. They only
twitched. And then thirst
arrived, and hunger. I crept out
from my shelter. Earth smeared
me from one end to the other
and had dried across my face so
that it felt as though my skin
were splitting as I moved.
Painfully I crept to the sound
of water. When I finally reached
the flowing, I groped for it with
my mouth, pulling myself
forward on my stomach until I
was elbow-deep in the clear
coldness. It swirled around my
arms and left again clouded
with the earth from me. I didn ’t
even pause before I put my
mouth to the water and drank.
If I had a warning thought at
all, I pushed it away. If I was to
die of Out, let me die unthirsty !

When finally my thirst was
quenched, staying my hunger
for the moment, I slid on out
into the water that lapped my
waist as I sat, and washed
myself clean, hair and all, then I

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

crept out to sit on a fallen plant
that scratched my legs as I slid
along it. I sat and shivered and
huddled until slowly a feeling
of warmth came to me, and
light came through the plants.
The power failure was over.
Atmosphere was adjusting it-
self. I let the warmth and the
light flood over me until
weariness flooded over me too
and I curled sideways^ on the
plant and slept again.

I awoke to heat and thirst
and hunger. My eyes didn’t
want to open to the blare of
light that roared around me on
sheets of heat. Atmosphere was
out of order still! But what
combination of errors could
bring such an incandescent light
to life above the plants? Lights
are cool! Heating units are
separate. I sheltered my eyes
with my crooked arm and
stumbled into the shadow of
the plants. In their shelter I
walked into the flowing water
ag£dn, and, cupping my hands,
drank. Quickly I changed my
scooping place to one above
me. I didn’t like the taste of the
water smudged from my earthy
feet.

Hunger woke in my stomach
again. But the halls would be
closed by now. What time was
it? The only watch I had was
my shift watch and it still •
stubbornly showed Change with
a wet stain across it. Change? I
looked around me and laughed.

THRUMTHING AND OUT

a quick, short sound of laughter
that died as I looked around
again. I backed slowly away —
away from what? My face felt
frozen into the last echo of that
laughter. I was afraid to
look— anywhere! Afraid to close
my eyes! There was no hiding
place. Everything was strange-
menacing!

Fear began to fill me,
weakening my ankles, stiffening
my knees, squeezing the breath
out of my lungs, wavering my
sight until all of Out began to
spin about me. I turned and,
shrieking breathily but almost
soundlessly, I ran. And collided
and ran. And fell and ran. And
wrenched my clothes free of
grabbing things. And staggered
in the hot light. And crept into
the wet shadows under things
until a long, legless beast
slithered across my scratched,
bleeding arm and I tripped out
completely.

The next thing I could
remember was lifting my
dripping, gasping face from the
flowing water and gulping,
“Wall! Where is the Wall? Here’s
the water! Where’s the Wall?! I
pushed myself upright, my arms
in the water up to my elbows.
The water rimmed niy arms,
swirled around me and moved
out of sight behind me among
the plants. Then I saw a thing
moving in the water— a creature
that gaped a mouth and drifted
toward me— a legless beast!

155

Again I tripped out, and then I
was huddled against a hardness
—and darkness all around me.
Power failure again? Things
were coming apart! Wobbling to
a stop!

Sounds were around irie.
Sounds I couldn’t identify, but
all threatening. Too weary even
to be moved by fright, I pushed
back against the heirdness, my
arms spreading sideways on
either side. I slid along its
solidity, trying to push my
exhausted self into the wall—
the The Wall!

Whimpering with urgent
eagerness, I felt along the
hardness. The Wall! I had found
the Wall! Now for the Breach—

I melted down into a heap of
complete misery. Out of all
those miles and miles and miles
of Wall, where was the Breach?
Out of aU that blind fleeing
panic of mine, where had I
arrived? Maybe this way to the
Breach? Maybe that way? Or
maybe— since logic had nothing
to do with thought any
more— maybe this wasn’t even
my Wall. Maybe there were two
Walls! I had to laugh at such
wild unreason, but my laughter
was a sob, and I pressed my
cheek against the bottom of the
Wall and cried.

I remember creeping in the^
darkness along the Wall, feeling
my way, for an endless time,
then stopping and thinking, “I
may be going farther and

156

farther from the Breach every
step.” So I started slowly back
the way I had come, but
stopped, stricken. What if the
Breach had been only inches
away from my groping hand
when I had turned back? I
melted into misery again.
Finally I lifted my head to push
back the hair that had been
sucking into my mouth at each
frightened in-breath, and no-
ticed far, far up in the darkness,
tiny lights had come on. Maybe
the power was coming back on!
Then I’d be able to see and to
find the flowing water— Of
course! The flowing water. I
hadn’t passed the Breach the
other way because I hadn’t
crossed any flowing water. The
comfort was brief— no flowing
water that I remembered. I was
lost, but utterly.

Then I noticed the light
brightening all around me so
that I could see the laciness of
the plant tops and a light— a big
light, but strangely soft. And it
was a cool light, as light should
be. At least it wasn’t a burning
Ught like the one that had
stiffened the skin on my arms
and legs. I watched the light
and finally saw that it was
moving! Slowly— oh, so slowly!
But up and up, higher and
higher! How odd! Then air
began to move past me and
around me. All the plants began
to move and make a small
flowing kind of sound— or

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

maybe the flowing sound made
them move. But blackness
swept above me and rolling
darkness covered up the light. I
winced back against the Wall
and began creeping again.

The bright blare of light
jabbed the darkness and the
heavy shaking sound followed.
Large drops of water hit me
hard enough to hurt, and I
heard them splattering on the
Wall above me. Then, with a
roar, all the terrifying noise and
movement and discomfort rush-
ed down on me again. All I
could think to do was to keep
creeping along the Wall so that I
wouldn’t lose it again. So I
crept, cold and wet, my hair
wrapped across my face so
tightly that I stopped even
trying to pull it free.

And I crept and crept,
wondering if other legless things
were creeping around me
unseen. I pushed myself be-
tween the plants and the Wall,
knowing only— don’t lose the
Wall— don’t lose the Wall. Then
the tumult softened and died. I
crouched against the Wall and
clawed my hair back from my
face. I tasted the earth from my
hands as they brushed my
mouth. And something deep
inside me suddenly giggled and
poked me inside my ribs and
said, “Is this more-so! Is this
ever more-so ! ”

“More-so!” I sobbed. “M6re-
so!” I laughed and clenched

THRUMTHING AND OUT

157

both my fists against my mouth
to keep the laughter from
turning into screams.

Then sound began again. Oh,
no! Not that tumult— not — I
jerked to my kneesi Listen! Oh,
listen!

Where is the green
Where is the growing?

Out!

The Strumthing! The Strum-
thing! I stumbled toward the
sound, even in my wild
astonishment trailing one hand
along the Wall.

“Stem!” I shouted— inside—
but it came out a jolt and a
gasp. Again I shrieked, “Stem!”
and the noise came out. I
scuttled even faster along the
Wall, and the sound of the
Strumthing came stronger.
“Corolla! Corolla!” My name
echoed and lost itself in the wet
darkness. <

“Stem! Stem!” I shrieked
again and, stumbling forward,
was seized and held. I jerked
away but couldn’t jerk free!

“Cool it, my lovely!” The
panting words swept across my
cheek

“Gillyun!” All my insides
jerked with shock. “But you’re
dead! You’re dead!”

“I will be if we don’t get
back In!” He dragged me off
into the darkness.

“But the Strumthing! ” I
protested. “I heard the Strum-
thing!”

“You better go on hearing it
until we make it back to the j
Breach.” Gillyun jerked me ;
loose from a plant that tangled,
my feet. “If it stops, that guy’s'
going to get dead, but for
sure—”

My mind stopped thinking.

It was too much to take in. I let
myself be jerked along, skim-
ming the Wall every inch of the
way, the quick backslap of the
plants catching and lashing me i
as though deliberately punish-
ing me. The water deluged
down on me. The quick light
and the crackling rumbles
shook the soul of me. Then my
feet splashed in water and !

ahead I could see a faint glow |
against the Wall. The Thrum- i
thing was only thrumming now. |
There was no pattern. I was
pulled and pushed and dragged
over those miles and miles of
the last few yards. I must have
tripped out then because my
next consciousness was of the
cupped whiteness bobbing
across my folded arm and
against my nose. I was lying
across my Spill. “I’ll ruin it,” I
thought dully. “I’ll ruin it.”
And turned painfully. Then I
shot upright. “Gillyun! Stem!”

I gasped. Gillyun was half out
of the Breach, pulling some-
thing. I scrambled over and
grabbed his shoulder. “Gillyun
-Stem!”

Gillyun looked back over his
shoulder. His eyes were closed

158

and his face was frozen in a
mask of frightened concentra-
tion. “Help!” he gasped. “Help
me get him in. He’s out. He’s
Out! I can’t take much—” His
hands loosened from whatever
they held, and he slid sideways
away from the Breach. I
crowded past him and reached
out. I groped and found Stem. I
grabbed hold of whatever I
could and, with an effort that
seemed to rip down one thigh
and up my ribs, I dragged.

Stem’s arm came. Then his
shoulder and head. I had his
other arm and shoulder in sight
when Gillyun reappeared. He
took one arm and I the other
and we got Stem back in. At
first I thought something had
happened to his face, but
Gillyun clawed at it and pulled
the blindfold off Stem’s eyes. It
left an odd-looking clean white
strip across his face. We
crouched, panting, watching for
living signs.

I heard myself whimper
when Stem’s chest rose convul-
sively and fell again and his face
began to twist. I reached out
and, with the flat of my hand,
tried to wipe the wet earth off
his mouth, but I only spread it
more. Gillyun shoved past me
and over the body of Stem.
Astonished, I watched him
crawl Out again. He was back
almost immediately, limping on
one hand and his knees,
dragging Stem’s Thrum thing

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

along with the other hand. He
caught my astonished look and
his eyes shifted.

“He values it,” he muttered.
“Water might spoil it.”

It was not to be believed—
the rosy light all around,
unflickering— the warmth— the
softness — the — the In-ness! We
were in Gillyun ’s Roost, which,
I noticed with a twinge of
relief, was only part of an
abandoned Service room. He
had taken out the partition and
made one room of it and fixed
up one corner of it. We were
clean, dry, fed and exhausted.
How long we’d been there I
couldn’t tell. I sat up painfully,
trying to wince away from my
thigh and ribs.

We had collapsed to the
floor after shuddering under the
shower, clothes and all, to
cleanse us of Out. The warm,
drying blast afterwards had
melted us down to the floor to
warm sleep. Gillyun ’s eyes were
open at my first movement.
Stem slept heavily between us,
one of his hands tight on the
Strum thing.

I crept around to Gillyun,
dragging my aching side with
me. I put my hand on his. “Tell
me,” I whispered.

His hand turned beneath
mine and his fingers closed
gently over mine. “No need to
whisper,” he said in his familiar
Gillyun voice. “He’ll sleep. Too

THRUMTHING AND OUT

' deep to hear anything except
maybe his Strumthing!”

“You fell,” I said, my throat
catching at the memory.

“I fell,” he said. “That white
thing I grabbed out of the Spill
jabbed me—”

“There was a small beast in
it,” I said. “Maybe it bit you.”

“Whatever it was, it threw
me off balance and I fell—”

“I thought you were dead,”
I said. My lips shook. I steadied
them, folding them in between
my teeth. “I thought you’d
fallen clear to first level. I
thought they’d say I altered the
population. I thought—”

“Shouldn’t think,” said Gill-
yun. “See what it leads to?
Especially if you really don’t
think at all. Me fall? To first
level? And you a Green! What
do you suppose happened to
Safety after you left training?”

“Safety?” My jaw dropped
and I reddened painfully. The
Safety that stretched along the
walls under every catwalk at all
levels. “Oh,” I said very small.

“Didn’t have time to fall
right, so I half tripped out and
got tangled up in the thing. By
the time I got back on duty,
you were gone. Naturally,
because your shift was over.
After shift, I went to Dorm and
then the Square. Stem came
roaring up, asking for you. You
hadn’t come off shift. How’d he
know? Only that you hadn’t
met him. So? Maybe you had

159 I

other strings to strum! But this
morning Sepal said you hadn’t
dormed. When you didn’t come
by shift time, I took yours and
mine—”

“Gillyun!” My fingers closed
over his in my astonishment.

“Well, foul footsteps pollu-
tion!” he roared softly, his eyes
carefully on Stem. “If duty
officer found you missing, he’d
alert Green headquarters and—
and they’d find the Breach and
the Spill, and large questions
would be put— like why hadn’t I
reported the Breach— and the
Spill— and— ” His eyes slid to
me, then away. “—And you,
long since. So after my shift, I 1
got Stem and we stormed the !
problem together until we came
up with the idea that probably
a fool kid like you— Logikids!
Too smart’s dumb!— went Out! I

“Stem insisted on coming up
with me, but he was literally so j
limp-legged by the time we got [
to the Spill that he couldn’t
walk. So, son of a gun— the guy
crawled! But he couldn’t force
himself up to the Breach until
he made me blindfold him.
Then we— we went— Out!”

The recollection was a
painful gulp, and his voice
shook as he went on. “The—
noise was so much— and no
lights— and the air pushing us!
We called. We yelled. Our little
sound just— wasn’t— in all that
racket— Is it always like that? Is
that Out?” he asked.

160

“No, I said, remembering—
with pleasure!— and with a small
something in the back of my
, mind that was beginning to be
insistent— “Some of it is good—
and beautiful— but it changes.
Fast. And then sometimes there
are legless things—”

“Legless!” He was startled.
“Well, Stem had tripped out a
couple of times already. The
last time, his face was in the
water. So I shoved him up
against the Wall, and when he
came back, he said maybe
you’d be able to hear the
Thrumthing. It had a different
sound from all the air and water
sounds. What’s that sudden
light that kept jabbing?”

“I don’t know,” I said.
“Maybe a short circuit? And it
made the noise—”

'"Light making noise?” Gill-
yun’s side-glance mocked me.
“So he played the Thrumthing
and after a while we heard you.
And I went way, way Out—”
His fingers were tight around
mine. “And I found you and he
kept strumming, and I’ll betcha
he had tripped out again before
we got back, but even so, he
didn’t stop!”

Gillyun lay back and looked
around him. “How warm,” he
whispered. “How warm and
complete to be In.” We lay in
relaxed silence and then he
giggled. I moved my eyes to
look at him.

“The recycler,” he ex-

FANTASY AND SCIENCE FICTION

plained. “What will it do with
all that earth the shower
washed down? Bet it’s not
programmed to process earth!”

“Then we’re not safe, even
now,” I said, half fearful,
half— not, still waiting on that
nudge in my mind.

“Never safe,” agreed Gill-
yun. “But, you know, even
that’s more-so! A big more-so!”

And it is— real more-so! And
Mine! Because I began it.
Began— I darkened my eyes
with my bent arm. Now. the
nudging was surfacing in my
mind. As I had been trained, I
put forth no effort, but let the
nudging become a flowing.

Things equal to the same
thing are equal to each other.
—In the Beginning, God. Time
began at the Birth— The Baby
and God both equal to
Beginning— equal to each
other—

But then, if I began—!

I felt my lips tighten as they
stretched to a small smile.
Well— no. No equality— only as
the water spoke blue to the
above that had first let its blue
speak to the water.

But Out once was good! And
I think I felt and saw bits of the
good while I was out. This
feeling, like the question-ended,
unresolved melody of the
Strumthing, needs an answer.

So, even if it’s cold and hard
and unfinished and un-In, I
want Out— again. Soon.

BOOKS-MAGAZINES

sc I ENTI FANTASY specialist: Books,
magazines. Free catalog. Gerry de la Ree,
7 Cedarwood, Saddle River, N.J. 07458.

SPECIALISTS: Science Fiction, Fantasy,
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issued. Stephen’s Book Service, Post
Office Box 321, Kings Park, L.I., New
York 11754.

ARTIST— WRITER'S Attic Treasure. Sam-
ple Portfolio, $1.00. Bookways, 436-FS
Center, Fort Lee, N.J. 07024.

Any out of print book located. No
obligation. Write William B. Spinelli, 32
Elmwood. Crafton, Pa. 15205.

FANTASY— SF books, detective fiction,
Sherlockiana, Mostly hardcover first
editions. Free catalogs. Aspen Bookhouse,
RD 1, Freeville, N.Y. 13068.

For Sale: Science fiction, westerns, others.
Wanted: Doc Savage, Shadow, others. We
buy collections. Send list, enclosing stamp.
Magazine Center, Box 214, Little Rock,
Ark. 72203.

SCIENCE FICTION, MYSTERIES (new,
hardcover.) Save to 70%. Free catalog.
Spencer, 3016-D South Halladay, Santa
Ana, Calif. 92705.

SF— Fantasy magazines, books, paper-
backs. List free. Collections also pur-
chased. Robert Madle, 4406 Bestor Drive,
Rockville, Md. 20853.

100 page catalog. Arkham. Fantasy,
Burroughs, Mirage Press, Science Fiction
Pulp, paperbacks, comics. Send 75^ We
also buy SF and comic collections. Send
lists. Passaic Book Center, 594 Main Ave.,
Passaic, N.J. 07055.

PHILOSOPHY: The Nature of Form in
Process: Information processing from

Plato to present (hardcover). 111 pp.,
$5.00, postage included. WRITERS:
Publishing short-short SF with impact.
Also, original, (scientific) philosophy
books. THE PORTER LIBRARY, P.O.
Box 1564, Burbank, Calif. 91505.

MILLIONS HAPPIER through the applied
philosophy in the book Dianetics: Modern
Science of Mental Health by L. Ron
Hubbard. Send $5.00 to Bookstore-FS.
Founding Church of Scientology, 1812
19th Street, N.W., Washington, D.C.
20009. ’

NEW ARKHAM HOUSE, MIRAG^
DONALD GRANT books at DISCOUNT
PRICES! Free catalog. Sunset-Vine Book-
mart, 1521 North Vine Street, Hollywood,
Calif. 90028.

Science Fiction and Fantasy Books for
sale. Gordon D. Barber, 35 Minneapolis
Ave., Duluth, Mn. 55803.

WANTED: LOVEC RAFT’S “Shunned
House" (on Canterbury Laid watermarked
paper only); W. H. HODGSON: all
pre-Arkham firsts, especially “Glen Car-
rig", “Carnacki”, “Borderland”; DINE-
SEN: “Seven Gothic Tales” (NY 1934,
mint/dj only); HECHT: “Kingdom of
Evil’* (1924; ditto). Offers with FULL and
ACCURATE bibliographic data and
condition description to: SOLARIS,. 5
Sloane Gardens, London SW 1, England.

2800 magazines plus 600 duplicates, 300
books, 800 pocketbooks. Includes first
issuesi Astounding 470, Amazing 300,
Wonders 139, Unknown 39. Also
Quarterlies, Fantastic Novels/Mysteries,
Avons, Planet, Startling, Oriental, Strange,
Golden Fleece, Weird Tales (two 1924
issues), many others. Price $3000.
Removal at your expense. Day, 21250
Meekland Avenue, Hayward, Calif. 94541.

SPECULATIVE FICTION— new and used
paperbacks and magazines. Change of
Hobbit, 1101 Gayley, Los Angeles 90024.

CLASSIC Science Fiction Criticism at last
available. J. O. Bailey’s PILGRIMS
THROUGH SPACE AND TIME is yours
now in paperback, $3.50, prepaid.
Greenwood Press, 51 Riverside Avenue,
Westport, Conn. 06880.

Books & Comics— 15C each list. David
Hissong, Rt. 2, Howard. Ohio 43028.

SPACE DRIVE HANDBOOK, description
of novel advanced propulsion systems;
Dean Drive, force field propulsion,
electrogravitics, teleportation, etc. 200
refs., $3.00 to JOSDRAD, R. O. Box 793,
Pomona. Ca. 91769.

Do you have something to advertise to sf readers? Books, magazines,
typewriters, telescopes, computers, space-drives, or misc. Use the F&SF
Market Place at these low, low rates: $3.00 for minimum often (10) words,
plus 30^ for each additional word. Send copy and remittance to: Adv. Dept.,
Fantasy and Science Fiction, P.O. Box 56, Cornwall, Conn. 06753.

Selling Comic Books, Pulps (Shadow,
Amazing, Spider, etc.). Magazines, Radio
Premiums etc. from 1900-1972. Catalogue
50^ We also buy. Send selling list.
Rogofsky, P. O. Box FF1102, Flushing,
N.Y. 113S4.

Book Readers! Save! Send title{s) wanted.
S&S Books, FS-1, 199 North Hamline, St.
Paul, Minn. 55104.

Fantasy— SF— Mystery— Horror Paperbacks
our specialty. Send wants. The Wbre-
wolves, 325 Parkman, Altadena, Calif.
91001.

EDUCATION

Earn College degrees at home. Many
subjects. Florida State Christian College,
Post Office Box 1674, Ft. Lauderdale,
Florida 33302,

HYPNOTISM

LEARN WHILE ASLEEP. Hypnotize with
your recorder, phonograph. Astonishing
detaiis, sensational catalog free. Sleep-
learning Research Association, Box 24-FS,
Olympia, Washington, 98502.

Hypnotism Revealed. Free Illustrated
Details. Powers, 12015 Sherman Road,
North Hollywood, California 91605.

FREE Hypnotism, Self-Hypnosis. Sleep
learning Catalog! Drawer G-400, Ruidoso,
New Mexico 88345.

PERSONAL

Please, want any information concerning
John H, Prociuk, Cold Lake, Edmington,
Alberta. Pat Kinnan, Box 6734, Ft, Worth,
Texas 76115,

WITCHCRAFT, VOODOO HEAD-QUAR-
TERS. Spells Galore! Occult Corres-
pondence Club. Catalog, 25^ Cauldron,
Box 403-FSF, Rego Park, N.Y. 11374.

MISCELLANEOUS

4000 years of armour and edged weapons,
catalog 50)i M. H. Kluever & Son, 1526 N.
Second Ave., Wausau, Wis. 54401.

EXPLORE YOUR INNER CONSCIOUS-
NESS electronically with a Biofeedback
Instrument. Alpha, Theta, GSR, EMG,
Temperature, Heart and Sexual Arousal
Monitoring Units all available. As low as
$5/wk. rental or $40/burchase. Send 25<
for catalog. PHENOMENA, 60 East 12th
Street, New York 10003.

How to build a reflecting microscope.
Instructions available for $2.50. Richard-
son Optical Services, Box 1209, Winter
Park, Fla. 32789.

“Glowing Spirit Ball” Small $1.00,
Medium $3.00, Large $9.00. Callisto,
2419 Greensburg Pike, Pittsburgh, Pa.
15221.

FRIENDS INTERNATIONALLY. Free
details. ATLANTIS, 31766 Lake, Avon
Lake, Ohio 44012.

ANTIGRAVITY DEVICE. Brochure 35^.
AGD, Box 3062-FS, Bartlesville, Okla-
homa 74003.

Great science fiction radio dramas on tape.
Catalog 50^ Golden Age Radio, Box
8404-SF, St. Louis, Missouri 63132.

ESP LABORATORY. This new research
service group can help you. For FREE
information write: Al G. Manning, ESP
Laboratory, 7559 Santa Monica Blvd., Los
Angeles, Calif. 90046,

YOUR MARKET PLACE

A market is people— alert, intelligent, active people.

Here you can reach 150,000 people (averaging three readers per
copy— 50,000 paid circulation). Many of them are enthusiastic
hobbyists— collecting books, magazines, stamps, coins, model rockets,
etc.— actively interested in photography, music, astronomy, painting,
sculpture, electronics.

If you have a product or service of merit, tell them about it. The price is
right; $3.00 for a minimum of ten (10) words, plus 30i6for each additional
word. To keep the rate this low, we must request remittance with the orden

Post office box and number count as two words. No charge for zip code.

Closing date is 10th of third preceding month; e.g., June issue, published
May 1 , closes March 1 0.

Fantasy & Science Fiction, Box 56, Cornwall, Conn. 06753

Zhe Jmptint of Quality

(since 1937)

THE MAGAZINE OF

Fantasi/ and
S cience Fiction

F&SF’s readers are both young (84% under 45) and
educated (62% have attended college). When they want
relaxation or stimulation in reading, they turn to the
best works of imagination and to FANTASY AND SCIENCE
FICTION. “F&SF regularly supplies the finest the field
has to offer in the way of short fiction”— Clifton Fadimon.
Compelling fiction, along with informative and stimulating
features on Books (James Blisb.) and Science (Isaac
Asimov), have earned F&SF its reputation as tops in the field.

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